To: Gabe Foster

From: Dylan Mitchell

 

Leaving him asleep, I make my way downstairs and back into the kitchen to make myself a coffee and put the food away. I take my cup and wander over to the wall of glass, sipping the steaming drink as I look into the garden. There’s a big flagstone patio with expensive-looking wicker patio furniture.

Like most gardens with these houses, it’s long and thin, but it looks well cared for, with established bushes and a large apple tree at the bottom. I can only presume that Gabe employs a gardener, because I can’t envisage Fletcher and him standing out there with their truckles and secateurs.

I settle down at the kitchen table and retrieve my phone and tablet from my bag. It’s time to do some work.

A couple of hours later, Gabe’s diary is cleared for a few days. I’ve remade some appointments, cleared a lot of the little jobs that have been niggling at me, and now the silence is beginning to creep me out. I need noise around me, even if it’s just a radio playing, so I decide to go and put the television on in Gabe’s lounge.

Gabe has avoided any attempt to keep the house period inside. Instead, he’s opened up the interior downstairs so that the lounge stretches the whole length of the house, and is therefore bathed in sunshine. It’s a beautiful room, and I have to reluctantly admit that the bastard has good taste.

A huge, comfortable-looking sectional sofa in a stone-coloured fabric is filled with big cushions. Large, rustic-looking lamps sit on corner tables, and magazines are stacked on a low coffee table.

The décor is a bit too beige for me, but it’s relieved by the modern art pieces which fill the walls. The one that draws the eye most is a beauty that dominates one entire wall. It’s six feet tall, and is a bold rendering of some tropical flowers on a white canvas, the oranges and pinks looking so vivid that they almost invite touch. I look long and hard at that one with my lips quirking, because I know the artist.

The walls to either side of the fireplace are covered with bookshelves, filled to overflowing with books. I spy a very expensive stereo in a cabinet, alongside media shelves filled with CDs and vinyl, and I crouch down to nosily rifle through the music to see his tastes. I’m probably overstepping many, many boundaries, but it’s likely to be the only opportunity that I’ll ever have to find out what makes the man behind the grumpy twat. I’m surprised to discover that we share a lot of similar tastes. I’m a huge fan of the 80s, and he has a lot of the classic albums of the time, along with a lot of blues and jazz.

I stand up and browse the bookshelves. He has eclectic tastes, so thrillers and historical tomes share space with battered poetry books which indicate a softer side. I try to imagine him declaiming poetry to Fletcher with them both wearing smoking jackets, but it’s actually easier to imagine him fucking him over the sofa.

I shake my head, because when I think about it, I can actually picture Gabe stretched out on the sofa in front of the huge fireplace, reading with a glass of wine. When my thoughts start to include me pottering in his kitchen, I back away hurriedly.

There’s a huge, flat screen TV over the fireplace, and finding the remote control, I switch it on and find an old episode of ‘Friends’. Leaving it playing, I look around the room and realise what is lacking. There are no pictures anywhere. I have photos everywhere in my flat of my parents and siblings, and Jude and I with various groupings of friends. We also have a massive bulletin board in the kitchen with several layers of photos. It offers a pictorial record of the gigantic pissheads that we had been, or still are. Photos of gatherings dominate, always with a table piled high with empties, and morning after photos are obligatory.

However, Gabe has nothing. If he died and the police examined his house, they wouldn’t be able to get a clear picture of the man beyond the history and poetry books, and the challenges to his liver in the kitchen. Shaking my head, I move on. It’s time to get my snoop on. I feel no guilt. I’m going to be cooking for him, so it’s a fact that he owes me knowledge.

I examine his study next, which is a small, cosy room painted a warm, light red. It has a desk and chair in front of the long window, and is filled with books again, to the extent that they are stacked on the floor around the full bookshelves.

The reading choices here are more professional, and centred on the tools of his trade. Gabe is a very successful lawyer, specialising in contracts and employment law, and seeing a row of battered books, I take one down and open it. I can see his name on the fly cover, written in a youthful version of the elegant, bold scrawl that I see every day.

I’m about to leave when I see a photo on the wall behind the door, and chuckle when I realise what it is. It’s Gabe in a cap and gown, and is obviously the graduation portrait that everyone had done. Mine, thankfully, is in my parents’ house, as I really don’t want to ever again see the haircut I was sporting at the time.

I move closer and smile. Gabe had been utterly gorgeous even then, but he hadn’t yet grown into his height, so he stood with a slight stoop, reminding me of my younger brother Ben who was six foot four by the time he was nineteen. Gabe’s hair is longer in the picture than I’ve ever seen it, hitting his shoulders. It suits him, and makes him look a bit rockerish. He was also very skinny, unlike his muscled frame now.

I look around hoping to see other photos, and maybe a glimpse of his parents or family, but there is nothing, and I wonder why this photo is out. It’s almost like he wants to remember that pinnacle of success, but at the same time the positioning of the photo out of general view, makes it seem like he’s almost ashamed of that urge.

I shake my head in mystification, and then decide to get a move on with the prying, because I don’t want him to find me snooping in his home office.

I move slowly up the stairs, and then keeping a sharp ear out for any signs of movement from his room, I poke my head through the doors leading off the first-floor hallway. I find three more bedrooms, all decorated beautifully, and a gorgeous bathroom decorated with sage tiles and a huge, claw-foot bath, set before a picture window looking down onto the garden. The angle of the window means that anyone could bathe looking out over the garden and a cluster of nearby houses, with no danger of being seen.

Everything about the place puzzles me, because despite the absence of photos, this is quite obviously a home decorated to his exacting tastes. It feels almost like a family home, albeit one that belongs to a family that loves beige. I would totally have thought to find him in one of the trendy areas of London, surrounded by designer furniture with martinis on tap, and not here in this soothing, warm house. I shake my head. The man is still an enigma, but now an enigma with a lovely home that I want.

Before succumbing to complete house envy, I lope up the stairs and peep into his room to check on him. He’s sleeping soundly but has tossed the covers down, obviously when he’d gotten hot. His long, muscled body, clad only in a pair of sleep shorts, is stretched out with one arm flung to the side, and the other holding onto his pillow that he’s buried his face in.

I smile because he sleeps with the utter, messy laxness of total oblivion, and it’s so odd to see him like this. He’s such a force of nature with the energy of ten men, and it touches me to see him so still and almost vulnerable. However, as I watch, he moves and moans fretfully as if looking for warmth, and I can see his skin pebbling with goose bumps. Without thinking, I stride over and pull the covers over him, tucking him in securely, and he nestles under with a low mumble.

I can’t help but reach out and stroke his hair, but he comes suddenly awake on a rattling cough. Flailing slightly, he jerks at my touch, and I only just avoid ripping out a hank of hair from where I’m clutching it. He lifts his head coughing again, and then twists to see me hovering over him, probably looking a bit creepy.

“Hi,” I say quickly. “You were shivering, so I pulled the covers over you.”

He stares at me, but it’s completely obvious he’s still half-asleep, and his expression remains vague. Smiling, I pull the duvet back up, covering the bare shoulder he’s exposed by moving. “Go back to sleep,” I say softly, but as I turn to leave the room his eyes open fully, and a smile fills his face that I have never seen before on his grumpy visage. It’s warm and clear, and so full of happiness that it ruins me. I would pay money just once to have someone look at me like that.

Then I stop dead as he says one word ‘Dylan’, before falling asleep again.

For a long time I stand immobile, staring at the sleeping man, but then I shrug and make myself move away. Delirious men are just that, delirious. I’d be mad to read anything into it. For good measure I make myself remember the other day, when he’d called me an incompetent imbecile because I’d spilt coffee on him. I smile and move downstairs. Job done. Order restored.

Gabe sleeps for the rest of the afternoon, so I do some more work, and then stretch out on the sofa to read on my Kindle. At about five o’clock I ring Jude and grandly instruct him to bring me some clothes and a takeaway, as I’m starving. He’s reluctant to do so until I tell him where I am, and then he can’t agree quickly enough.

I watch out of the window for him, so he doesn’t ring the doorbell and wake Gabe. When I see him sauntering up the road, I quickly open the door and gesture him in.

“This feels quite clandestine,” he remarks, smirking as he squeezes past me. “Almost like we’re spies.”

“You’d never go unremarked in that getup,” I say, gesturing at his tight, royal-blue chinos.

“I’ll have you know my little corporate whore, that this is a very fashionable colour.”

“Only if you work at CBeebies.”

“You’re just jealous because you could never pull these off.”

I look dubiously at how tight they are. “I sincerely doubt that you can pull them off unless you’ve got a chisel.”

He snorts. “Oh, fucking lovely. I schlepp your shit all over London, and even stop off for Chinese, and you still can’t stop insulting me.”

“No, I can’t, and you only did all those things to see Gabe’s house.”

“Yeah you might be right,” he murmurs, following me down the corridor, his eyes everywhere. “Jesus, this is gorgeous. Why can’t we find somewhere like this?”

“Because I am a lowly assistant, and you are a model, and together we still don’t make what a partner of Gabe’s status makes.”

“Life’s not fair,” he huffs, and then spies the booze. “Oh, bingo!”

“No,” I whisper sharply, snatching a bottle of vodka off him. “You are not getting blitzed in Gabe’s house.”

“Why are you whispering?” He snorts. “Is it because he hasn’t realised yet that you’ve rather creepily moved in, while he’s too sick to notice?”

“I have not moved in, and Gabe’s ill.”

“Oh, it’s Gabe now, is it? Not Shithead Boss Man, like normal?”

“Oh, shut up.”

Then we both jump about a foot in the air when a deep voice drawls from the door. “Shithead Boss Man, eh? You know, Dylan, I really lucked out in the assistant department. The other partners in the firm have ended up with someone awful, who soothes them, is at their beck and call and agrees with them all the time. I got one who is sarcastic, argumentative, scruffy, rarely where he should be, and calls me Shithead Boss Man rather than Sir.”

Jude laughs at him, before reaching out and swiping one of the prawns from my carton of sweet and sour. “He’d call you Sir if you spanked him.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I sigh, burrowing my face in my hands, and then raising it in surprise as Gabe bursts into laughter.

“I’ll have to bear that in mind for his next appraisal,” he chokes out, before succumbing to a massive coughing fit which racks his body.

“For fuck’s sake,” I snap. “Why are you out of bed?”

He gradually gets control of his breathing, as I run him a glass of water. “Because I needed to walk around. I’ve never slept so much in my life.”

“Well, you needed it. That’s why I put you to bed.”

Jude snorts. “This is like a regular Saturday night, listening to Dylan having this conversation. Only the recipient is usually a tad more eager.”

“Jude, shut up,” I hiss, and when Gabe looks at me with one eyebrow raised I shake my head. “He’s lying.” I hand him his water and reach out, laying the back of my hand over his forehead. “Jesus, Gabe, you’re burning up. Let me call the doctor.”

He leans into my touch for a second, then steps back shaking his head. “I just need to get over it. I’ll have another of those shitty, yellow things that you made earlier.”

“You mean Lemsip?” I say patiently.

“Yes, that’s the one, but it might be improved by adding whisky.”

“Only if we wanted to add accidental overdose of drugs and alcohol to severe virus on your hospital admission sheet,” I snipe, turning away to put the kettle on. “I’ll make you a virgin Lemsip and then you can go back to bed.”

For a second I’m sure that he’s going to argue, but then he sighs and nods. He settles heavily down onto a bar stool, and accepts with a thankful smile the throw that I snag from a chair when I see him shivering. Pulling it around him he looks at Jude who is busily eating my Chinese. “So, you must be Jude?”

Jude nods. “You’ve heard of me then?”

A wry smile crosses his face. “How could I fail to have heard of you? I’m treated daily to the other side of your conversations with Dylan. I like to start my morning with a strong coffee, and listening to the retelling of both of your exploits from the night before. It’s better than ‘The Archers’.”

“Oh God,” I groan, as Jude laughs. “I didn’t realise you were listening. I’m sorry, I’ll try to keep it down.”

He smirks. “I notice you didn’t say that you’d stop. I like that.” He pauses and looks hard at me. “I like it anyway. It’s interesting and occasionally humorous.” He pauses. “And sometimes quite pitiful.”

Jude laughs. “That’d be him, not me.”

I hand Gabe his Lemsip. “There. Drink that. Do you need anything else?” He shakes his head slowly. “Okay then, go back to bed.” When he doesn’t move, I make shooing motions. “Say goodbye to Jude. He’s just going, and won’t ever come back.”

“Oh no, do feel free to stay,” he says to Jude. “Dylan’s been so kind and stayed here, forcing himself on me, completely beyond my wishes or instructions. It would be nice for him if he had company in his home invasion.”

Jude bursts into laughter, and nods. “I’ll stay for a bit. Thanks, Gabe.”

He nods, and then looks at me where I’m still making shooing motions. “Dylan, I am neither a dog, nor a farmyard animal, so it is beyond my comprehension why you are making those gestures at me.”

“You’re certainly not trained at all,” I say briskly, and walk behind him as he moves towards the stairs.

“Why are you doing that?” he asks hoarsely.

“In case you fall backwards.”

“Well, stop it. It’s making me uneasy. Go and sit with your friend.”

I ignore him, shadowing him to his bedroom where I settle the covers over him, noting with anxiety how ill he actually looks when he isn’t bantering. His hair is wet with sweat, and his skin has gone sheet white. There is also a visible tremor in the hand clutching the blanket.

“Go to sleep, Gabe,” I say gently, straightening the duvet so that it sits neatly over him. “The only thing that really works with this virus is rest, according to Sheila from the canteen.”

I wait for another acerbic remark about our co-workers but get nothing as he’s asleep before I even leave the room.

When I get downstairs, I remove Jude from my takeaway forcibly and fall on the food with a groan of happiness. “Thanks for bringing this. I was so hungry, and there’s fuck all to eat in this house.” Silence greets me, so I look up to find him staring at me. “What?”

He shakes his head. “What was all that?”

“All what?”

“All that - the tender touches, the snarky conversation. It was almost like foreplay for sick people.”

I choke on a prawn. “It was not foreplay for fuck’s sake. That’s the way I always talk to him.”

“Well in that case, I’m surprised he hasn’t got you bent over his desk every spare minute that he has.”

“Oh my God, stop.”

“No, you stop. I’m feeling overly warm because there was so much sexual tension in here. And that was despite him being ill.”

“There’s no sexual tension, don’t be a prat. You’re seeing things.”

“I am not. I see things very clearly, clearer than you that’s for sure, because what was with the touching?”

I push my plate away, suddenly losing my appetite. “Stop it, Jude.”

He bends forward, and behind the humour I see concern. “No, you stop,” he whispers. “I’ve never seen you together. All I’ve ever known is your complaints about him. From that, I formed a picture of a cold man, albeit a fucking funny one. I live for the putdowns he gives you. But now I’ve seen you together, I have to admit that I’m worried.”

“Worried? Why?”

He reaches out and grabs my hand. “You’re more closely involved with him than I’d thought. Seriously, Dylan, be careful, because you’re a giving bloke. If anyone needs anything, you’re first in the queue to provide it. Don’t choose someone who will never appreciate that gift. Don’t give to someone who will take it and never give back.” He looks towards the stairs. “I’ve got a horrible feeling he’s one of those people. There’s something very closed off about him.”

“But that’s just me. I don’t know why you’re so worried. I’ve been concerned about people before.”

“And it never combined well with when you started fucking them.” I draw back as if stung, and he shakes his head quickly. “That’s not the whole reason that I’m worried, Dyl.”

I relent at the childhood nickname. “Why, then?”

“Because he’s not immune himself. I’d write it off as unrequited attraction from you working in close confines with him, but he’s interested in you too. That’s as clear as your reflection in that very expensive mirror over there.”

I protest but it falls on deaf ears, and when he leaves after a couple of hours I try again, but he shakes his head. Drawing me into a tight hug, he whispers into my ear, “Be careful, Dylan. This has disaster written all over it. He’s not someone you can have a safe crush on. That man is dangerous and damaged. I know it.”

I wave goodbye, but an hour later as I lie on the sofa watching a repeat of ‘Casualty’, I can’t help picking at his words like worrying a sore tooth.

Gabe’s voice draws me from my thoughts. “Has your friend gone?”

“Jesus!” I jump. “I swear you need a fucking bell on you.”

He smiles, and then to my surprise, he settles down on the edge of the sofa next to me, subsiding against the cushions with a weary grunt.

“How are you feeling?” I ask softly, the lateness of the hour seeming to ask for secrets.

“Shit,” he mutters, “but slightly less shit than before.” He shudders violently, and I throw the blanket that I’ve been cuddled into, over him. “Thanks,” he mutters, and then groans. “God, that’s so warm from you.”

I feel my dick twitch at that throaty murmur, and try hard to think of things like tax returns and scabs until it settles down. I look up to find him looking hard at me, and my dick’s condition isn’t helped by the heavy-lidded face and wild hair. If he wasn’t so ill, he would look like he’d just been fucked.

Pushing those thoughts aside and trying to remember Jude’s warning, I sit up. “Are you hungry?”

He’s silent for a second and then nods. “I am a bit. I don’t think I’ve eaten since yesterday, but I don’t feel like much.” He pushes the blanket off. “I’ll go and have a rummage and see what treats you bought me.”

I reach out without thinking and push on his hard chest, and for a second, time seems to stand still. I have touched him of course, but over the years they had been casual touches to maybe get his attention, or to hold his jacket. This, however, is in a low-lit room at a late hour, and my fingers have never felt before the hard ridges of his muscles, and the springy wiriness of his chest hair. We both stare at each other before I quickly clear my throat and jump to my feet.

“You’ll sit there and rest,” I say quickly.

“Okay,” he says hoarsely, and then clears his throat. “Where are you going?” The latter is said with a hint of panic, as if he thinks I’m going to leave.

I stare at him. “I’m going to make you some scrambled eggs on toast.”

There’s a new flush on his pale cheeks as if he’s blushing, and he shifts awkwardly then protests. “Oh, no, there’s no need to do that. Seriously, Dylan, you don’t need to cook for me. You’ve done enough.”

I pad to the kitchen, aware that he’s collected his blanket and is loping after me, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and head like a refugee. “I don’t mind,” I say, as I flick the lights on and gather the ingredients together. A long search later, and I manage to find a saucepan.

I shake my head at the state of the kitchen and then become aware that he’s staring at me. “What?” I ask, as I put the pan on the burner and add a knob of butter. I slide the bread into the massive Dualit toaster that looks like it’s never held any form of bread since it came out of the box, and look at him.

He shrugs awkwardly. “I’m just not used to people doing things for me.”

I pause in my whisking of the eggs, to add salt and pepper to the bowl. “Well, that’s a bit sad. Anyway, you’re used to me doing things for you. I do them every minute of the day.”

“That’s in work hours,” he mutters. “When we both know our jobs.”

I pause before emptying the eggs into the pan. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Gabe. Is it making you uncomfortable me being here? I was just worried about you being on your own.”

“I’m not on my own,” he says indignantly, and I raise my eyebrow looking around the empty house. “Well, I am now, but that’s my choice. If I wanted, I could have someone here in a second.”

“I’m sure you could,” I say in a low voice. “My question is do you want me to go?”

Indignation bleeds from his shoulders, until he slumps, staring at me like I’m an unidentified species that he’s found in his kitchen. I put the whisk down with a clatter, and he puts his hand out quickly.

“No, I don’t want you to go. Please stay, Dylan.”

I stare at him for a second, seeing the tightness that looks almost like worry around his eyes. “Okay,” I say calmly. “I’ll stay.”

He seems to relax immediately, making me wonder what is going through his mind. I’ll never know, as he’s tighter than a clam with his feelings. I pour the eggs into the pan with some chopped peppers. The toast pops up, and I look at him as I butter it. He’s staring at me in fascination, as if he’s never seen anyone make food before.

“You said you weren’t used to people doing things for you,” I say abruptly, and he jumps slightly, returning his gaze to my face from where it seemed to be transfixed by my hand holding the knife. Then he catches my words.

“I’m not.”

“But you must have when you were a kid?”

He looks out over the kitchen as if looking at something fascinating, and when I see the flush on his cheeks, I relent. This is obviously an uncomfortable subject for some reason, and I’m just about to change the subject when he speaks.

“Not really.” He shoots me a glance heavy with an undecipherable emotion. “I was brought up in the foster care system.”

I put the knife down with a clatter. “Oh no, Gabe. How? Why?”

He smiles at my garbled questions. “My parents died, and my grandmother was the only family that I had left, and she was too ill to take me in.”

“How old were you?”

“Five.”

“Jesus, Gabe.”

“It was alright,” he says quickly, signs of his prickly personality trying to come through, and then he gives up. “Actually no. It was horrible and at times horrific, but I came through it, and as soon as I was eighteen, I was out of there. School was an escape for me. There were a couple of teachers who really believed in me, and I spent as long as I could there where it was safe.” My heart hurts at the word safe, but he carries on, speaking blithely now. “I had my parents’ life insurance money which I got when I was of age, and my grandmother left everything to me, including this house. At that time it had been empty for years and was very dilapidated. I moved in when I was officially released from care at eighteen. I used the money to restore it, took on a shit load of student loans, and rented it out while I went to university.” He looks up, startled, as if he’s said more than he intended. “It was a good investment,” he finally says stiffly.

This is my answer to why he lives here. He’s obviously been looking for the home he never had. This is his sanctuary. I feel pain in my hand, and realise that I’ve been digging my nails into my palm. Wriggling my fingers, I busy myself with plating his meal up, giving him time to get his equilibrium back.

When I place it in front of him, he looks up. “How about you? Do you have family?”

I nod, fetching my tea from the side and putting a glass of milk in front of him before sitting down on the bar stool opposite him. “I do. They all live in Devon.”

“Why don’t you?”

I shift. I feel awkward talking about this to someone who has no family. “I love them to death. My mum and dad are brilliant, and I have two brothers and one sister. They all live on our farm. My mum and dad have the main house, and my sister and older brother have houses on the property. My youngest brother’s away at university.”

He looks at me, curiosity alive in his face, and I notice he’s eating with great appreciation, wolfing the food down in big bites.

“Is that okay?” I ask, motioning to the supper, and he nods.

“It’s bloody great, Dylan. I’ve never tasted eggs like this.”

I smile. “It’s not Michel Roux, Gabe, it’s just scrambled eggs. It’s the cayenne pepper in them that spices them up a little bit.”

He waves his fork at me. “Go on with your story. You haven’t explained why you’re not there too.”

It occurs to me how weird it is that this isn’t weird. We are sitting at a table in a cosy room, talking about personal things, when I’m not convinced he even knows when my birthday is. Every time I’ve tried over the years to get to know him, he’s dismissed my questions as flim-flam devised to delay work.

I give in when he gives me the big eyes. He’d hate to know they’re like Bambi’s eyes, and particularly cute today as they’re surrounded by all that wild, tousled, Stig of the Dump hair. Repressing a smile, I carry on. “They’re all a bit mad. My mum’s an artist and very eccentric. My dad’s the only sensible one. He’s a typical farmer, very stoical, but you need that when you encounter the rest of the family.”

“Were they good to you? What did they think when you came out?”

I look up, startled at the personal question, but then shrug. I make no secret of my sexuality, and neither does he. “Oh God, yes. My mother believes fervently that everyone should be free to love whoever they want. She’s a big fan of individuality and nonconformity. I think my brothers and sister disappointed her a bit, as none of them really got into trouble or had any crisis of sexuality. A couple of them are even Tories, much to her horror.” I smile. “Unfortunately, that left me, and after my zillion lectures on gay rights, I’d had enough. University was a blessing because otherwise I might have had to alienate her by joining the Young Farmer’s Association.”

He smiles. “Did you meet Jude then?”

“No. I’ve known Jude since we were in nursery together. Our mothers are best friends, and he’s always been part of the family.”

He runs the tines of his fork down his plate. “And you weren’t ever together?” His voice is low, and he doesn’t look at me.

“No,” I say softly. “Never. We kissed once, and it was so horrifying we vowed never to do it again. He’s enough like my brother for that to have been worrying.”

He huffs out a laugh, and I’m relieved that his earlier awkwardness and sadness seem to have gone. He looks much more like himself, and I sigh inwardly, because God help me, but I like the vulnerability that he’s shown me far too much. Jude was right to be worried because I’m in far more trouble than I’d thought. That prickly exterior of his has always challenged me to be better, but the real him attracts me beyond comprehension.

Shit, I think morosely. I’m fucked.