Page 2 of Best Man (Close Proximity #1)

ONE

JESSE - THREE YEARS LATER

I walk through the narrow, whitewashed alley, coming out into the glory of Neal’s Yard.

Even after three years, this place still makes me happy.

It’s almost a shock to cross from the main road with its cars and noise into this small courtyard full of the scent from the window boxes hanging from the tall, narrow buildings that are painted intensely vivid colours from pink to lime green to sky blue.

It’s hidden in plain sight and I’ve always thought it was like a psychedelic Diagon Alley, full of small shops, restaurants and cafes, and tourists taking the perfect Instagram shot.

According to Zeb, the area was once the home of occultists and astrologers, and to me it seems that atmosphere lingers a little in the open and welcoming feel of the courtyard.

Zeb’s building is one of the prettiest. It’s four storeys in the original brick with windows painted bright orange.

It has the original bay doors from when it was a warehouse, and pretty Juliet balconies.

His front door is painted lime green with a discreet sign advertising the name of the agency, and when I open it and walk into the hallway, it’s blessedly cool and filled with the scent of roses from the flower arrangement on a low table.

I saunter through the reception area, which contains the usual load of people waiting to see Felix or Zeb. Felix grins at me.

“Why the sunglasses inside, Brad Pitt? Hiding from the paparazzi?”

I shake my head. “They’re needed today.”

“Have you got a hangover?” he asks sympathetically.

“Why does everyone always leap to the conclusion that anything I do is alcohol related?”

“Because it is,” comes a deep voice from behind me. I whirl round to see Zeb standing in his doorway. He’s in his shirtsleeves, his tie at half-mast, clutching a handful of papers and wearing a sardonic smile.

“I feel judged,” I say. They keep looking at me, and finally I sigh and lower my glasses.

Zeb drops his papers and strides towards me immediately. “What the fuck?” he says angrily. “Who did this?”

I gape at him as he lifts my face and examines my black eye intently.

“Well?” he says. His voice is sharp, but the fingers he touches to the side of my eye are gentle. I blink at him, smelling the scent of oranges. I’m sure he doesn’t realise how close he’s standing, but I’ll take the time to enjoy it while I can.

Felix shifts position and realisation comes into Zeb’s eyes as well as discomfort, and he drops his hands from my face.

I mourn the loss of his closeness before I realise that he just said something. “Huh? What?” I say.

He shakes his head. “Did you hit your head when this happened?”

“No?”

He sighs. “Okay, this is just normal behaviour, isn’t it? I keep forgetting that.”

Felix breaks into laughter, and I shake my head before putting my glasses back on. “It’s a long story,” I say slowly.

“Ah, would it have anything to do with the very long email I received from Mr Sampson this morning?”

“It depends on whether that email is praise or recrimination.” He stares at me and I shake my head again. “Okay, a bit of both, then,” I say sadly.

“Into my office, Mr Reed,” he says, waving his hand towards the door as if I’ve forgotten where it is.

I square my shoulders. “Just so you know, this is totally like being called in to see the Head. And not in a good way.”

“Is there a good way?” he asks, his mouth twitching at the corner as he shuts the door.

“In porn there is.”

“Ah, I can’t help feeling, Mr Reed, that watching porn has given you rather unrealistic expectations of life.”

I slump into the chair opposite his desk. “Maybe. But I have realised by now that it’s never that easy to get a plumber.”

He can’t help the smile this time, but he quashes it remorselessly and sits down in his chair before resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers together.

It’s a thoughtful pose, but I can testify that it’s a better interrogation technique than anything MI5 use. And more threatening, I think morosely.

“Well?” he murmurs.

“Oh, okay then,” I say sulkily. “There might have been a tiny fight at the wake.”

He blinks. “And did you cause it?”

“No, of course not,” I say indignantly. He stares at me and I slump some more. “But I might have finished it. You should have seen Peter Sampson’s family. All of them glaring at him like he was Voldemort arriving for the wake, rather than just a gay man with his partner.”

“ Pretend partner.”

I stare at him. “Of course.” I furrow my brow. Surely he can’t think it’s anything else? I know the rules and I abide by them. No fucking the clients. I open my mouth to break in, but he speaks and the moment is lost.

“So, what happened?”

“The coffin was set up in the front room, and Peter tried to go in, but his elder brother was drunk and barred his way. Said no faggot was coming into his house.” Zeb grimaces but motions for me to carry on.

“Anyway, he laid his hands on Peter and pushed him, but Peter shoved him back.” I grin.

“Quite surprised me. Made me feel almost proud.” I shrug.

“But then it was open season, and in the fight that happened next, there was a lot of pushing and shoving and a great deal of family members who appeared to have very strong feelings about homosexuality. And not the good, strong feelings you get at Vibe at midnight.”

He frowns. “So, what happened? How did you finish it?”

I shift in my chair. “I punched the eldest brother. He deserved it,” I say quickly. “The homophobic git slapped Peter round the face.”

“And then?” I look at him and he sighs. “There’s more. I know there’s more.” He shakes his head. “There’s always more,” he says with weary resignation.

I try to summon up indignation, but I can’t manage it because he’s telling the truth. “I punched him, and I must be a great deal stronger than I ever imagined because he flew through the air and landed on the coffin.”

“Jesus Christ,” Zeb mutters and rubs his eyes.

“Do you know that in Spanish that’s Jesu Christo ?” I nod. “I know that because it was shouted a lot after that.”

“Why?” It’s the voice of doom.

I bite my lips. “Because the old lady sort of fell out of the coffin.”

“Sort of? How does a body sort of fall out of a coffin?”

“Your voice goes alarmingly high when you’re angry,” I observe.

He breathes in slowly. “Jesse Reed,” he says ominously.

“Okay, okay. Since you actually used my first name, I’ll tell you.

But it wasn’t used terribly nicely. You could really do better.

” He glares at me. “So, the old lady’s body sort of fell out of the coffin, and the brother landed on her.

” I shrug helplessly. “It brought the party to a bit of an abrupt stop.”

“I should imagine it did,” he drawls. “Is that how you got your black eye?”

“I’d like to say yes, but the undignified truth is that one of the old lady’s shoes flew off and hit me in the eye.”

There’s a very long silence as he steadily goes red in the face. Alarmed, I wonder if I should ring for an ambulance, but at that moment he starts to laugh. And laugh. And laugh .

I stare at him, feeling my own lips twitch because his laugh is so contagious. You could actually catch his laughter like a little germ and feel it taking root in yourself.

After a few minutes, he stops laughing and looks contemplatively at me. I try a smile, but I think the true glory is a bit wasted today with my sunglasses on. I probably look like I’m still pissed.

Zeb shakes his head. “That explains Mr Sampson’s email.

” His voice wobbles slightly and I frown at him.

“He apologises for the fracas at the party and would like to tell you that the package was picked up and put back where it belonged.” His voice falters again but he firms his expression.

“He says how happy he was with the service and would definitely like to use you again.”

I stare at him. “So, that’s good, then. Brilliant.” I clap my hands together. “Another satisfied customer.”

“Let’s not speak too rashly. That goes against the grain.” I open my mouth, but he holds his hand up. “No, I’m not explaining that.” I subside back into my chair. “Let’s face it, these last few months have been rather eventful for your career at the agency.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say uneasily.

“Really?” he says silkily. “You wouldn’t? Hmm, let’s see. Last month you were asked to escort Mr French to an office party and what happened?” I mutter something and he smiles mockingly. “No need to whisper.”

“I fell on the buffet table,” I say clearly. “Because someone tripped me up.”

He smiles. “Yes. Yes, you did, and then what about the next week when I asked you to sort out Miss Hendon’s garden, and you decided that her prize collection of ferns were actually weeds and pulled them up?”

And he’s off. It’s almost admirable how he can speak without notes. He’d have a great career on the after-dinner speaking circuit. Although only if the title of the speech was The Misadventures of Jesse Reed, I think sulkily.

There’s a big, expensive-looking, square envelope on his desk with Zeb’s name on it in italics. It looks like an invitation of some sort, and I crane my neck to try and see more while he rants on. However, I can’t, so I’m forced to grin and bear it.

Finally, after what seems like a week, he lets me go with the suggestion that I pull my socks up. I contemplate telling him that I’m not wearing any, but I abandon that when I see the glint in his eye. Instead I half salute and scarper.

Once the door shuts behind me, I look at Felix and fall to the ground, groaning dramatically.

He laughs. “Was it bad?”

“Define bad,” I mutter into the carpet. I raise my head. “He’s vile sometimes.”

He shrugs. “But fair.”

“He’s even more bad tempered than usual,” I mutter, getting up and slinging myself into the chair next to his desk. “Is Patrick giving him a hard time?”