Chapter Thirteen

 

 

SEEING Tom’s marmalade Ford Edge SUV parked out front, Marcus felt a tremble of excited anticipation, which increased as he approached the cream front door of Tom’s parents’ house. Tom had left him no more than an hour ago, but even so, Marcus felt hungry to see him again, to be in his presence, even though Tom had insisted they be on their best behavior. No touching, no longing stares, no tactile giveaways. Tom’s parents would be watching. Marcus had almost laughed at the earnestness in Tom’s face. First of all, he would never dream of doing anything that might give them away. More importantly, never in a million years would Tom’s parents suspect anything.

He knelt to set his cake dish and Tupperware containers down on the doorstep, took a deep breath, and clunked the knocker since as far as he knew, Tom still hadn’t fixed the doorbell. Apart from bringing a selection of mini restaurant goodies, he’d baked his trademark apple and almond tart, one Moira raved about. When he heard footsteps inside coming toward the door, he retrieved the items, ready to hand them over to Moira.

Except Tom answered the door, wearing a navy blue chef’s apron over the same white polo shirt Marcus had helped flip the collar into place on earlier—and a lustful smile that had Marcus’s lower beast stirring.

“Marcus Vine. And what can I do for you?” said Tom with a wink before raising both eyebrows a couple of times in quick succession, an expression that had Marcus grinning broadly and reddening.

“Where should I begin?” murmured Marcus suggestively.

“And why didn’t you use the doorbell?” said Tom, leaning in close to Marcus and prodding the button to the left of the open door to produce a pretty ding-dong that echoed back from the kitchen.

Moira’s voice called out asking who was there.

“All fixed. Now you can ring my bell any time you want.”

“Stop it, Tom,” said Marcus but couldn’t help grinning. “It’s not your bell, anyway.”

When Moira called out again, Tom rolled his eyes and huffed out a sigh. “For goodness’ sake. It’s Marcus, Mum,” he called back over his shoulder before lowering his voice to speak to Marcus. “Fuck. I really want to kiss you right now, but as you can tell, the hawk is circling.”

“Best behavior, Thomas Bradford. We both agreed. Best behavior.”

“Go say your hellos to the folks and guests. Then come help me with the barbecue.”

Marcus went to move past Tom, but the big man stayed in the way so that Marcus had to turn with the cake dish and containers out of the way and squeeze past, brushing his arse against Tom’s groin. Behind him, a low growl rumbled through Tom. Marcus was about to turn and chastise him again when Moira popped her head around the kitchen door.

“Tom, there’s a lot of smoke. Are you sure you’ve used the right firelighters? Maybe you should let Marcus take over. Hello, Marcus, dear.”

Tom muttered an expletive and a few words Marcus couldn’t quite make out before rushing past him and heading out the back door.

“Hi, Moira,” replied Marcus, strolling into the kitchen, putting down his wares, and giving her a peck on the cheek she tilted toward him. John and Moira had never been tactile, which Marcus assumed to be a family trait. Tom had sometimes shaken his hand or offered an occasional one-handed slap on the shoulder. Not particularly physical. Until last night changed everything. And once again the mere thought of the night’s exertions had Marcus’s neck turning red and his heart beating faster.

He needed a beer.

“Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into my son this morning. Anybody would think he’d won the lottery, the way he’s behaving.”

Marcus smiled and headed toward the kitchen door, but Moira stopped him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Moira. As though reading his mind, she opened the fridge door and pulled out a can of Carlsberg.

“To help Tom with the barbecue,” he said, taking the beer and snapping off the tab. “Or do you need a hand in here?”

“Somebody I want you to meet first.”

Without waiting for a response, Moira led him into their small glass conservatory, which overlooked the back garden. A dozen or so guests already stood around chatting and drinking. Tom’s father sat in his wheelchair, his back to the windows, drinking a glass of red and chatting with a neighbor. Marcus was about to stop and say hello, but Moira grabbed his forearm and led him to the far end of the room, where a young man stood alone.

“This is Lincoln Prescott. He’s Jimmy Prescott’s nephew. From number twenty-seven? Just arrived back from Australia. He’s looking into starting up his own catering business over here. Keep him company for me while I finish up in the kitchen.”

Even before Lincoln opened his mouth, Marcus got a vibe. Decked out in a milky peach polo shirt and beige chinos, he chose to stand alone by the conservatory window. His arms folded, he rested a bottle of lager in the crook of one arm and had been peering out into the garden. Marcus’s intuition grew from the way Lincoln turned and took him in, undressed, and assessed him. And the knowing grin that formed as his eyes returned to Marcus’s and lingered, studying him without flinching. Was that also a touch of arrogance? And then, like a bucket of cold water in the face, it dawned on Marcus. Moira had already told Lincoln about him, was probably trying to set them up. The cheek of the woman. So Marcus did the only gentlemanly thing: he smiled broadly and held out a hand in welcome.

“I’m Marcus—”

“Vine,” said Lincoln, returning the handshake with an ice-cold hand, the one that had been holding the beer. “Yes, I know. You’ve been something of an inspiration while I worked down under. I kind of like how you’ve avoided going the telly celebrity route. Ever thought about opening in Melbourne?”

“Nice idea. But I’ve got more than enough on my plate at the moment. Excuse the pun.”

They continued to chat amiably, mainly about Marcus’s success and his new openings in New York and Birmingham. Lincoln—“Link”—appeared to have followed Marcus’s career from the early days, reciting almost biographically Marcus’s rise to fame. He spoke sparingly but animatedly about himself, about his life in Australia, always bringing the conversation back to Marcus, something Marcus found both flattering and a little obsequious. Marcus positioned himself so that from time to time he could sneak a peek over Link’s shoulder, out the window to the amazing man who had shared his bed last night. A couple of times Marcus tried to find an excuse to leave, but on each occasion Link managed to keep him there by asking a few more questions. Eventually Marcus found out why, when Link suggested they go for a drink one night the following week. Flummoxed at first, Marcus accepted provisionally, citing potential work demands. But realizing Moira had instigated the head-to-head, he decided this might placate Link. He could always cry off nearer the time.

A good thirty minutes after his arrival, something tugged at his trouser leg. “Uncle Marc” came the serious voice of Charlotte. She stood before them at waist height, frowning, hands on hips. Her pretense at being stern had Marcus smirking, a look not unlike one her late mother used to pull off to perfection.

“What is it, princess?”

“Daddy says you need to come and take over barbecuing now. Before he remakes the burgers and steaks.”

Marcus peered through the conservatory window again and could see Tom gazing anxiously toward the kitchen window. Had he sent Charlotte over because he knew what his mother was up to? And if so, was he maybe a little jealous? The notion gave Marcus a delicious twinge of pleasure.

“Remakes the burgers?” asked Link before taking a swig of beer. His question brought Marcus’s attention back.

“Cremates,” translated Marcus, which instantly had Link spluttering and coughing with laughter. He had a nice laugh, unaffected, one that lit up his face, and even though Marcus was not in the slightest bit interested, he warmed to Link’s easy charm. At any other time he might have been intrigued to know more.

“I’d better go. I did volunteer to help out.”

 

 

“DADDY told me to say that,” said Charlotte as she led Marcus out the kitchen door down to where Tom hovered over the barbecue, looking hot and bothered.

“I guessed he might have,” said Marcus. “But then, I did offer to help.”

“Was that your boyfriend?” she asked, in all innocence.

“No, Charlie,” said Marcus, chuckling at her bluntness. “I don’t have a boyfriend. That man’s a relative of Granny’s neighbor. I was just trying to make him feel comfortable.”

“Good, because Daddy keeps asking where you are.”

“Does he now?”

Tom didn’t look so much pleased as relieved when he saw Marcus approaching. Not that he couldn’t handle the barbecue well enough, but he looked as though he needed a break.

“Can I go back and play with Gemma and Ewan again?” asked Charlotte.

“Yes, off you go,” said Tom to her departing back. “But no running and annoying the other guests. Any of you.”

With the two of them alone, they gave each other a furtive grin. Marcus quickly brought Tom up to speed.

“Can’t believe your mother’s trying to hook me up!” said Marcus, taking the tongs from Tom, nudging him out of the way with his hip, and pressing a couple of burgers to see if they were cooked. Beside him, Tom tugged on a beer but said nothing.

“Although from what he said,” continued Marcus, “I think he only wants free advice about setting up a business over here. Wants to take me out for a drink and grill me. In the nonbarbecue sense.”

After Marcus chuckled alone and turned a few pork-and-herb sausages, he turned to Tom, who had a sad, pensive expression on his face.

“Are you okay?”

“You know what, Marcus? If you want to see people, I have absolutely no right to ask you—”

“For fuck’s sake, Tom. Reel it in, will you? Not only did I have the most amazing time just being with you last night, I also had the best sex of my entire life. So if you think I’m going to risk losing that for Link the Twink, then you must be delusional.”

“Yeah?” asked Tom, beaming down at the barbecue.

“Big-time,” said Marcus, leaning over and bumping shoulders. “When are you free for another round?”

The speed at which Tom’s eyes met his and the molten look that settled in them said everything.

All that afternoon, Tom kept finding ways to get close to Marcus, to squeeze past as Marcus washed dishes, brushing against his arse; to reach for something in a high cupboard, which brought his face close to Marcus’s ear; or to walk past and purposely smooth the back of his hand against Marcus’s groin.

No matter how much Marcus thrilled at these intimate gestures, eventually he had to find a quiet moment to tell Tom to stop before someone noticed.

 

 

ONLY six of them sat around the dying embers of the barbecue as the Saturday afternoon sun bled from the sky. Poor little Charlotte had finally succumbed, her exhaustion finally getting the better of her. Stubborn to the end, though, she demanded to be placed in an old pushchair in the sunshine so that she could still be close to everyone. Katie sat at the picnic table, leaning against Moira, reading her book.

“So what did you make of young Lincoln?” asked Moira, straight-faced.

Marcus felt Tom’s foot nudge his own under the table and couldn’t resist the smirk that twitched his lips. “Seems like a nice kid. Good sense of humor. And he’s clearly been around the block.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He’s young, but he knows what he’s talking about. He doesn’t talk—” Marcus wanted to use the word bullshit but thought better of it. “He talks sense.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Oh, come on, Marcus. Is he your type or not?”

“Mum!” said Tom.

“For God’s sake, woman,” said John at the same time.

“Moira, I’m shocked,” said Marcus, holding a hand to his chest in mock horror. “Were you trying to set me up? With a complete stranger? He could be a serial killer, for all you know….”

“Don’t be ridiculous. His father’s a clergyman.”

Around the table, the men burst into loud laughter until Tom noticed Charlotte moving in her chair, and shushed them. John took the reins from there, probably to change the subject.

“Manage to get to any games lately, Marcus?”

“Don’t get the time, Mr. B. Spend practically all my waking hours either in the restaurants, with my manager, Tina, or with Tom’s brood.”

Just then Marcus’s phone rang. When he pulled the device out, Tina’s name appeared on the display.

“Talk of the devil. Tina. Give me a second.”

As he rose from the table, Tom caught his eye and winked. The simple expression had his heart fluttering and brought a smile to his lips. At a safe distance, while Tom’s father talked about football, Marcus took the call.

“How’re you enjoying your rare day off?” she asked.

“Spiffing. Moira tried to hook me up with a neighbor’s nephew.”

“No!” said Tina, her laughter followed by a fit of coughing. “Spill.”

“Nothing to tell. He’s far too young. Barely out of nappies.”

“And?”

“And what? Oh, please! You think I’m old enough to be anybody’s daddy?”

“No, but I think you’re too bloody fussy by half.”

“What did you want, Tina?”

“Just had a call from Kurt. Everything’s back on track. They want you in New York to train and shadow the new chefs for the Brooklyn restaurant week after next. The good news is, it’s not going to be a long haul. There for the opening and do a bit of publicity. You’ll be flying solo, though. I need to be here to keep my eye on the refit schedule in Birmingham.”

Marcus calculated the dates and then let out a deep huffy sigh. Sometimes he just couldn’t catch a break. “Bugger. I knew this would happen.”

“What?”

“It’s just—the girls are off school that week for half-term. I was going suggest to Tom that we both take a few days off work. Drive to the coast or something.”

“Is everything okay between you two?”

“You could say that, yes. Oh well, doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“So take them.”

“Sorry?”

“To New York. Take them with you, Tom and the girls. You’ll have that bloody huge two-bedroom apartment again sitting empty during the day. There’s plenty for kids to do over there—musical shows, top of the Empire State, Statue of Liberty, Central Park. They’ll love it. And you’ll have a grown-up to talk to and do things with in the evenings.”

Even as her reasoning sank in, Marcus could feel the heat rising in his throat at the hope, the possibility of sharing the apartment with Tom. Although with the girls there, they’d have to be on their best behavior. No messing around.

Still.

“And remember, it won’t all be work, Marcus. Apart from the opening night, Kurt only needs you in the kitchen for one afternoon and evening before and after. But he also insists he wants you to be hands-off after that so that his chefs can find their feet on their own. Yes, he needs you to be contactable in case of any cock-ups, but you won’t have to be physically there, just near enough to come and put out fires in case of emergencies. I think it’s a great idea to bring them with you.”

“I’ll need to talk to Tom first. Do you think we’ll be able to get them a table for the launch?”

“Consider it done. Now tell me I’m a genius.”

“You’re a genius. Who’s paid loads of money.”

“To work her arse off for you.”

“And I love you for it. So it’s obviously a definite yes to me being there. And I’ll text you about the other thing later.”

“Excellent. Now go and enjoy the rest of your day off.”

Back at the table, Tom caught Marcus’s eye and winked as he approached. His father appeared to be holding court, as he liked to, talking football again, something about famous Chelsea wins. Moira, having heard the conversation many times before, had decided to start clearing the table.

“Everything okay, Marcus?” John was the first one to speak as Marcus sat among the small group again.

“Hunky-dory, John. Just been confirmed. New York’s very first Old Country has its official opening the week after next.”

“Oh, Marcus, that’s wonderful news,” said Moira.

“Are you going to have to be there?” asked Tom quietly. Marcus knew exactly what he was thinking. Was Marcus going to be deserting his best friend again?

“Of course he has to be there,” answered Moira before Marcus could speak a word. “It’s the launch, for goodness’ sake. They’ll want the maestro there.”

“How long for?”

“No more than a week,” said Marcus. Tom’s sullen nod had Marcus smiling. When Tom finally looked up and saw Marcus’s reaction, he sighed and smiled back.

“Well done. Good for you.”

“Thing is, it’s over half-term, Tom. Tina’s not going to be there, and to be honest, I could use some moral support. I don’t suppose you could get some time off work? So you and the girls could come too? I mean I’d have to spend a couple of days and evenings at the restaurant, and you’d have to come and support me by dining there as my guests on the evening of the launch. But they mainly want me on call after that, so I’d be free to join you for outings and fun. And besides, there’s plenty for you and the girls to do. Katie always wanted to ride the Staten Island Ferry.”

As Marcus spoke, Tom sat up straighter and straighter in his chair, the transformation on his face priceless.

“Oh, I think that’s a wonderful idea,” said Moira. “But what about flights?”

“We’ll transfer Tina’s ticket into Tom’s name. For the girls, I have so many points I’m never going to spend, might as well put them to good use. And the sponsors always put me up in this huge two-bedroom apartment. So accommodation would be taken care of.”

“Two bedrooms?” asked Moira. “How would that work?”

“One for the girls. One for Tom,” said Marcus. “And there’s this humungous couch in the living room that I’ll sleep on.”

“That I’ll sleep on,” said Tom.

“Yes, well,” said Marcus, looking directly at Tom but keeping a straight face, “I might have to toss you for that. At the end of the day, Moira, it’s more a case of whether Tom wants to come or not.”

“Of course he wants to come, don’t you, Tom?”

At that moment Tom smiled slyly and sat back in his chair. “I’ll have to think about it,” he said, making Moira huff in annoyance and Marcus laugh aloud.

“Book the bloody tickets, Marcus,” piped in John. “No son of mine is going to look a gift horse in the mouth. And don’t your restaurants have English memorabilia on the walls?”

“They do. Not quite Hard Rock Café classics, but some nice British mementos.”

“We still have that shirt signed by Ed de Goey, the Chelsea goalkeeper back then, after their FA Cup win back in 2000. The one you won at auction. That would be a fair trade, son.”

“You kept that?” asked Tom.

“Course we did. It’s not ours to toss. And it’s probably worth a few bob.”

“You’re absolutely right, John,” chipped in Marcus. “These things fetch a fortune on eBay. What sort of condition is it in?”

“Take Marcus up to your room and show him, Tom,” said John.

“No, it’s fine—”

But Tom was already pushing his chair back from the table.

“Come on, Marcus,” said Tom, smiling and heading toward the house. “Think you might be really impressed.”

“I tucked it behind the headboard. Ignore the mess and the boxes on the bed,” called Moira, as house-proud as ever.

Marcus stepped into Tom’s old bedroom first while Tom flicked the light on. Marcus stood there, taking in the setting, a little dusty and neglected now, but with a faint smell of adolescent male. He only stood there for a second, though, before being spun around, pinned to the bedroom door, and kissed. When eventually he came up for air, Tom was beaming at him.

“New York. Could this weekend get any better?”

“With the girls, Tom. We’ll need to be good.”

“We’ll make it work. In the meantime, next Wednesday lunchtime.”

“What about it?”

“I have a meeting in the morning. Finishes around eleven. I could be at your place by midday as long as I’m back on-site by two thirty. What about it?”

So that was how it was going to be, thought Marcus. Stolen moments. Not that he could complain. He had, after all, told Tom that what they had together was good enough for now. The problem is, nobody ever explains how long “for now” means.

“Done. Anything special you want for lunch?”

“Just you, naked and ready to go when I get there.”

Tom leaned in for another kiss, a hand straying down to Marcus’s groin.

“I think I can manage that,” said Marcus, pushing gently away from Tom. “Now show me this football jersey your father mentioned. Before we both get caught.”