Chapter Eleven
ELEVEN thirty Wednesday night, Marcus lay on top of the thick cotton quilt in his hotel room in Birmingham, mulling over the lease signing meeting, which had gone so much better than expected. As usual, a lot of the negotiation points had been complicated, but since the opening of Shepherd’s Bush three years ago, he surprised himself at how much he now understood. Nevertheless, that kind of detail bored him—Marcus preferred to be holed up in the kitchen, playing with knives and fire and creating magic.
Which was one of the reasons he had excused himself to use the washroom on Tuesday during a particularly long and arduous debate on renewal clauses. Wandering the corridors of the large law firm, he had tried one door after another until he had stumbled upon a fully kitted-out kitchen. Inside, one of the suits from the firm, taking a break to use the snazzy Italian coffee machine, had explained that the kitchen was only ever really used for firm functions. After getting directions to the toilets from the guy, and then having a quick snoop around the surprisingly well-equipped kitchen, he had found his way to the restroom. And as he had pulled out his phone to check messages, the small piece of paper Daniel had given him fell out of his pocket. On impulse, he’d decided to give the number a ring.
“Brackley Moor Manor House. How may I help you?”
“Yes, hello. May I speak to Laura Kitchener in bookings?”
“Speaking.”
“Yes, hello there. My name’s Marcus Vine.”
After a slight pause at the end of the phone, the woman continued.
“Marcus Vine?” A touch of suspicion crept into the tone. “As in the well-known chef?”
“It is, actually. But I wouldn’t exactly call myself famous.”
“Oh my goodness, it is you. I would recognize your voice anywhere. My husband and I saw you on the celebrity chef feature on Channel Four on Tuesday. We’ve been to your Edgware Road restaurant three times. Every time the food has been amazing. We’re both huge fans.”
“I’m honored. And thank you so much for your support. The thing is, Laura—is it okay to call you Laura?”
“Of course! Oh my goodness. Wait until I tell Bobby, my husband, that you called here.”
“The thing is, Laura, a good friend of mine made a booking at Brackley Moor around eighteen months ago. I just wondered if you’d have kept any details. Her name is—was—Mrs. Lorraine Bradford.”
“Yes, I certainly do. A policeman asked me the same question recently. Told me what had happened to her. And he also said a friend of his might call, but I never imagined it would be you.”
“Police Sergeant Mosborough? Yes, we’re good friends.”
“That’s the one. Mrs. Bradford—God rest her soul—placed a tentative booking for the second Saturday of last November. A hundred people. Said it was for a seventieth birthday party. But we never received the deposit or any follow-up confirmation, so we naturally had to let the booking go, I’m afraid. Don’t tell me you were going to do the catering?”
“No,” Marcus laughed.
When he returned to the boardroom, Tina had been on fire and had already managed to negotiate everything he’d wanted within budget, down to the kitchen overhaul and structural modifications to the shop front. Once the legal paperwork had been signed, they had estimated opening a month earlier than planned. Which was why Marcus surprised them all that lunchtime by slipping out early to cook everyone a hot lunch selection from his new menu, using their underutilized kitchen—he’d bought all the ingredients on his way back to the hotel—a nice change from cold sandwiches, and much to the delight of those gathered.
After the high of the day before came the bombshells from Tina the next morning. Not only had eager American shareholders been in touch overnight wanting to kick off the New York venture, requesting Marcus to be physically there in the kitchen for the first few months of opening, but Millstone Publishing had sent an email requiring his approval of the first draft of his very own Old Country recipe book. With that, came the deadline of getting everything ready for the Christmas market. Typical of Marcus’s life, everything seemed to happen at once. Stress he was used to, having worked in a kitchen for most of his adult years, but right now work was becoming overwhelming, and that unsettled him.
Just then his phoned beeped with a message.
U awake?
Tom. And just like that, he found himself smiling and his spirits lifting as his thumbs flashed eagerly across the keys.
Nope. Fast asleep. What’s up?
Cant sleep. Keep thinking.
About?
Friday night and what I’m going to do to u.
Marcus gulped, even as his heart sped up. He still had trouble processing Tom’s feelings for him.
U still there?
You’re killing me Tom.
Killing isnt what I have in mind. Can I call you?
You know you can. Anytime.
Seconds later the phone rang and Tom’s deep breathing came down the line. Before he could prepare himself, Marcus’s erection began stretching his sweatpants.
“Good evening, Thomas Bradford. To what do I owe the pleasure? You want me to count sheep with you?”
Tom’s deep laughter rumbled pleasantly down the phone. “You know something, Marcus? Just hearing your voice does it for me these days.”
Marcus smiled and his neck warmed. For all Tom’s past insensitive behavior, every now and then he had a way of stalling Marcus with his frank and honest sentiment. “And to think you were going to dump me.”
“Shit. We both know I was wrong.”
“Tossed out with the garbage.”
“Not going to let me forget that, are you?”
“Not on your life.”
Tom’s chuckle warmed Marcus to the core.
“By the way, Tom, don’t forget Katie has to take a cake tin to school tomorrow.”
“Shit. Where—?”
“I’ve put it in the cupboard beneath the sink. In the blue recycled shopping bag. Don’t worry, she’ll remind you in the morning. And Charlie has her piano lesson after school. But I’ve arranged for Moira—”
“Marcus—”
“—to pick her—what?”
“I’m losing my erection with all this baby talk.”
“You’ve got a hard-on?”
“Rock solid.”
“Fuck,” said Marcus before groaning softly into the phone and throwing himself into the pile of pillows along the headboard. “Now I wish I was there.”
“You are. Just keep talking. But please, no more cake tins or piano lessons.”
“What, then?”
“Whatever. Ask me what I’m wearing?”
Marcus pulled the phone away and stared at the display. Did Tom want to have phone sex with him? Ah well, in for a penny…. “So, what are you wearing, Thomas Bradford?”
“Tonight, sweat bottoms and a T-shirt. In case the girls call for me in the middle of the night. But I’m planning on leaving them at home when I come to you on Friday.”
“Christ, I’m so nervous about Friday.”
“Why?”
“I’m worried I won’t be enough for you. Or that as soon as I see you naked, I’ll embarrass myself.”
“Now that I would pay to see.”
“I’m serious, Tom. I want it to be really special for you.”
“It will be. Stop worrying. You’re the one with the man-on-man experience. Although I admit, I have been doing some homework.”
“Oh yes?”
“Internet.”
“I’m listening.”
“Went onto a couple of gay porn sites with guys going for it. To be honest, it didn’t really do anything for me at first. Not until I stumbled on one guy built a lot like you. Totally different face, but when I covered that with my hand and thought of you… well, let’s just say we definitely had liftoff. And now I can think of nothing else. Certainly gave me some ideas for Friday. So come on, talk to me. If I was with you now, what would you like to do to me?”
And there it was. In reality, Marcus would have liked to have tapped Tom’s fine ass on Friday, but he knew the idea might freak the man. In his early twenties, Marcus had bottomed twice, but both times he’d never really felt it, not the way some of his bottom partners had, rolling their eyes back, genuinely aroused and stimulated beneath him. Maybe that’s simply how he was built. Or maybe he’d never been with the right man. But if that’s what it took to get Tom Bradford in his bed, then he would get himself physically—and, moreover, mentally—prepared. Still, there was something else he had always wanted to do to Tom Bradford.
“I’d pull down your sweat bottoms and suck you dry.”
“Details. Give me details.”
“Tom. Can we have real sex before we get into the phone variety?”
“Spoilsport.”
“Not really. I want to know what sex with you actually feels like before we resort to talking about it. You know, I want to know what it’s like with our hot bodies wrapped around each other, or to suck you into my hot moist mouth while my lips squeeze around the head of your cock and my tongue caresses around the salty head before I take you deep in my throat and swallow hard. Or the sensation of straddling your lap with you buried deep inside me. Especially while I’m lubed up and nuzzling your ear and neck, or licking and biting your hardened nipples while I ride you home like a seasoned jockey. Should I go on?”
Tom’s ragged voice came down the phone. “You bastard.”
“Gay phone sex is a breeze. It’s the real deal beneath the sheets that matters.”
They both fell silent for a moment, Marcus enjoying the simple sound of Tom breathing down the phone.
“Can I ask you something else?” came Tom’s voice.
“Anything.”
“Why were you never with anyone? In all the time we knew you, I don’t think you ever introduced us to anyone.”
“Nobody fancied me.”
“Bullshit. I don’t believe that for a second. What’s the real reason?”
“Honestly? I did meet a couple of people, but none were keepers. Maybe it’s because no matter how I tried, I never found anyone who lived up to you and Raine?”
“So what? It was our fault? We ruined you?”
“You didn’t ruin me, but—I don’t know—everyone needs role models, something to aspire to. And you two did set the bar pretty bloody high.”
At the mention of Tom’s late wife, Marcus thought back to the telephone call he had made the previous day.
“Tom, how old is your father?”
“Seventy-three. Why?”
“And Moira’s sixty-nine, yes?”
“Yes. Why the interest? Is this about their anniversary?”
“What anniversary?”
“They’ll have been married fifty years this year. But if you were thinking about offering to do something special for them, they’ve already said they don’t want anything overelaborate. Just a small dinner with close friends and family.”
Marcus mulled the words over, wondering if now would be a good time to tell Tom what he’d found out about the day Raine died. Whether wise or not, he decided against it, not wanting to ruin the intimate moment they were having together. As though he’d heard Marcus’s thoughts, Tom’s voice came down the phone.
“I wish you were here. Lying next to me.”
“So do I.”
“Are we still good for seven on Friday?”
“As long as you’re on the whole night.”
“Night, Tom.”