Page 12

Hobbies

This short story is set a month after Joe and Lachlan got back together. It was originally written for my newsletter subscribers.

Lachlan

I come awake to the knowledge that I don’t have to work today. Once upon a time, that would have been a cause for concern, but that was before Joe. Now, I stretch in the warm tumble of covers, inhaling the scents of wash powder and sex. My dick stiffens, and I send out an exploratory hand to find my husband. When my fingers brush cold sheets instead of warm skin, I open my eyes, squinting in the bright sunshine.

The bed is empty.

“Joe?” I croak, but there’s no answer — just the faint sound of birdsong and a radio playing downstairs.

I slide out of bed and pad to the bedroom door. I poke my head out and call him again. There’s still no answer, but I can hear voices, and when I lean over the banister in the hallway, I can make out my husband’s tones. It sounds like he’s talking to our cleaner. A door opens downstairs, and their voices become clearer. It is our cleaner. She’s saying something, and Joe’s voice sounds loudly.

“Well, I can really recommend the Bluebell Lodge for a wedding venue. The reception room has just been decorated, and they had the bedrooms redone last year. The food’s good too, and the gardens are stunning for photographs. Give me a shout if you need anything else.”

I roll my eyes. I’ve learned that a wedding planner is never at rest. Wherever we are, people gravitate towards Joe as if he’s a marital beacon broadcasting his job. He’s like confetti in human form.

I consider going downstairs but then pad back to bed instead, climbing into the still-warm sheets with a sigh of contentment. I used to pack my hours fuller than Samuel Pepys’s diary. Now, I know the joy of a real day off with my husband. We tend to sleep in and start the day with a fuck and a lazy breakfast and then get on with whatever activity we plan.

After a few minutes of pleasant idleness, I feel the mattress depress slightly, and I smile. “Hello, Humphrey.”

The cat stalks up the bed before curling into the crook of my legs. I reach out and pet his ear, and he nudges his cold nose into my fingers. Then I lie back and doze with my feline companion.

I’ve been lying there for a while, snug and comfortable, when the door creaks.

“Has she gone?” I mutter. “Or do you need to pop out and have the first dance with her?”

“I thought you were asleep, you naughty little eavesdropper.” Joe’s voice is rich with laughter.

I smile. “It’s not eavesdropping when you’re talking loudly enough for the dead to hear.”

“Hope they can’t, or Jed will send them Confetti Hitched promotional literature too.”

I hear clothing being discarded, and then my husband’s warm body embraces me from behind. “Good morning,” he says.

I stretch, feeling his hairy legs against mine. “It is now.”

“You old smoothie.”

Humphrey utters an indignant noise and stalks out of the room in search of a quieter spot. His back is rigid with displeasure, as if he’s blaming us for bringing him to the feline equivalent of King’s Cross station.

“Why are you up so early?” I ask.

“Ah, I went to sort out breakfast.”

I go still. “Please say you’re not cooking it.”

“Pshaw! Of course not. I ordered in.”

“Thank you, Baby Jesus.”

“He had nothing to do with it. That was all me.” He pushes up behind me, and I feel the stiff length of his cock.

“Is your phone poking me?”

He snorts. “You’ll wish it was the phone when I get through with you.”

“Big words from someone expecting a food delivery any minute.”

He slaps my arse. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the croissants and bacon arrive. Let’s do it.”

“Cole Porter must be rolling in his grave.”

“Did he used to run the Red Lion on the high street?”

I laugh, but it turns into a squark as he puts his cold hands on my balls. “Fuck off and warm your hands first,” I mutter.

“Come on. Let’s get on with it. The clock is ticking.”

“Your foreplay used to be a lot more on point.”

“It must be marriage. It’s making me complacent.”

My laughter turns into a groan as he shoves onto my back and then wriggles under the covers.

“Let’s see if I remember how to do this,” he murmurs.

My snarky retort dies as Joe licks up my cock before suckling on the head. I spread my legs in invitation, and he settles between them, looking up when I raise the duvet to watch him.

“Feel like a show?” he asks huskily.

“I do. But not tickets for Wicked again,” I say quickly. I’ll never get back the hours of my life spent staring at that stage while Joe hummed and swayed as if he was in a cult, but thankfully not one I belonged to.

“Who needs Wicked when you’ve got me?”

“Did the plot of that show focus on a husband edging his partner?”

“I knew you weren’t paying attention to the musical.”

“What gave me away?”

“The snoring. A man two rows forward wondered if it was thundering.”

He hums thoughtfully before blowing a cold stream of air over my cock, making me thrust my hips towards him.

“ Joe ,” I say warningly, and he gives his merry laugh before bending back to my cock with purpose this time. I try to watch him, but he’s too good, and eventually, I close my eyes and explode into orgasm, feeling sparks behind my eyes.

When my breathing is under control, I look down at him. His head is resting on my hip, his bright eyes watching me intently. There’s a flush on his cheeks, and his dick is hard.

“Come up here,” I say, throwing my pillows off the bed and lying flat. “Feed me your cock.”

“You have the best ideas,” he says fervently.

I grunt as his knee bangs into my hip in his hurry. “Well, castration wasn’t one of them.”

“Spoilsport,” he chides and then does as I instructed him.

An hour later, I finish my last mouth of food and set my knife and fork on the plate with a sigh of happiness. I take another drink of coffee, enjoying the new blend Joe bought me last week, and look around the kitchen.

It’s a sunny room with bi-folding doors that lead out onto the terrace and the walled garden. We’d kept the old parquet flooring and had it polished so that now it shines, and I’d insisted on having the units painted the same robin’s-egg blue as Joe’s eyes.

I look back at Joe, who’s watching me with a smile on his face. “What?”

He shrugs. “You just look happy in this house.” He considers his words. “Contented.”

“I am.” I reach out a hand and pull him into a kiss. “It’s not the house, though. It’s you.”

His whole face softens, and then he looks around. “I love it here. It’s really home.”

“It is.” I take another sip of coffee. “So today is your day. What are we doing?”

Joe works most weekends of the year, so I work as well, or see friends, or go to weddings as Joe’s assistant. Weddings are enjoyable now in a way they never were before, mainly because I get to see Joe in his element — a sight that never gets boring.

However, Mondays and Tuesdays have become our new weekends, and we do something fun together, taking turns picking our adventures, and I’ve grown to love the time. We experience the dates we should have gone on when we first met, but now, they’re a thousand times better because I know he’s all mine — every sparkling, effervescent inch of him.

The dates are somewhat off-field when Joe gets to pick. So far this month, I’ve been axe throwing, which was fun, and kayaking, which was less so as Joe has the kayaking ability of a dead squirrel.

He sets his mug of tea down, his face full of mischief. “Well, I’ve picked something really fun this week.”

“It’s not horse riding, is it?” I ask warily.

He studies me. “Why would that be a problem? You’re the same as Raff. He’s got a terrible phobia about horses.”

“I’m not scared of horses. I just don’t get on well with them.”

“I’m not asking you to buy them a drink and keep them entertained for the day.”

“They don’t like me and make it their life’s ambition to buck me off.”

“Surely not?”

“It happens every single time. It’s like they have some telepathic warning signal because they all act like I’m Damian as soon as I come near one.”

“You do have that prince of darkness thing going on. Hmm.”

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn. “Even donkeys hate me.”

“Good job you were never tasked with getting Mary to Bethlehem.”

“I’d have booked an Uber.”

He starts to laugh, his eyes lit up with fun, and I’m seized with such utter love for him. I’ve never felt this way about anyone and consider myself immensely lucky that this merry, warm-hearted man who could have anyone returns my feelings. Getting here might have taken a while, but I’m determined we’ll never stray off course again.

“Well, it’s not horses, donkeys, or lions. It’s something much better.”

His eyes shine with enthusiasm, and I mentally gird my loins because that look always and without fail presages trouble.

An hour later, I stand outside an old building on a busy high street in North London. “Life drawing class,” I say, reading the poster on the door. “What the hell, Joe?”

He chuckles. “Such a tone of nihilistic despair. I’d think you’d be celebrating that you have a husband who takes you to draw naked men.”

“I’m cartwheeling inside. You just can’t see it.” He snorts, and I glare at him. “I’m terrible at art.”

“You don’t have to be good at something to have fun doing it.”

“Thank you, oh wise one. Our sex life would disagree.”

He smirks. “We’re not just good at that. We’re fucking amazing .”

I eye the poster morosely. “I think I preferred the kayaking.”

“We can’t do that again because I could not stand more of the joy that came from having my husband call me a moron. I might burst with happiness.”

“I did fish you out of the Thames,” I remind him.

“My hero.” He takes my arm and guides me into the building. “It’ll be fun. We’ll learn something new and ogle a man’s private parts.”

“You’re very seedy under that shiny exterior.”

“And you’ve only just realised that?”

We come into a big room with a wooden floor that shows the scratches of the years. It smells faintly of bleach, like every village hall I’ve ever been in. Easels are set in a circle surrounding a raised dais on which is a mattress with a sheet draped artistically across it.

A lady with grey hair and round glasses comes rushing over to us. “Hello,” she flutes. “And you would be?”

“Hi,” Joe says with his usual warm smile that slays people left, right, and centre. “I’m Joe Moore, and this is my husband, Lachlan.”

I wonder if I’ll ever lose the thrill of hearing him say that. I hope not.

After brushing back what seems to be a dozen scarves draped around her neck, she consults her clipboard. “Yes, here you are,” she says, marking us off on the paper. “Please select an easel each. Your teacher will be here soon.”

Someone else enters the room, and she rushes away to talk to them while Joe and I choose a couple of easels. It makes me smile that we automatically move towards the ones at the back of the room like naughty schoolchildren.

The easels are paint-splattered, smell of turps, and have big sheets of paper clipped to them. Next to each one is a wheeled tray containing art supplies. Joe, ever nosy, immediately starts rummaging through the contents. “Ooh, I wonder which medium will be the one I excel in,” he says.

I shake my head. “ If you excel. After seeing some of your doodles, I think it might be likely that you completely suck at it.”

He looks up, his eyes bright with amusement. “My doodles are examples of artistic genius.”

“They’re examples of a highly disturbed mind. I’m surprised we haven’t had Scotland Yard round.”

He snorts. “Oh, ye of little faith. Rafferty told me you just need a keen eye and a steady hand to draw, which is ironic as he couldn’t hold his shot glass last night.”

“Because he’d drunk ten of them.” I eye him contemplatively. “I suppose you do have a very steady grip. It’s one of your best talents and one I must insist you never lose.”

“Must you reduce everything to its base level?”

I consider that and then nod. “Probably.”

“And that is why I love you.” He pulls out a packet of charcoals, looking at it consideringly. “Raff showed me a local newspaper article about this course when I booked it. The journalist said it’s important that you can make quick decisions.”

“I do hope not,” I drawl, sitting on the stool and watching him. “The last one you made involved seven mojitos and a spot of skinny-dipping in the Cotswolds.”

“It was a very nice swimming area. I loved the wisteria everywhere.”

“It was the village pond.”

He shakes his head. “We could have done it if you’d just given it a chance.”

“Not before the police would have arrived.”

The room is full now, with most of the easels taken. Two middle-aged ladies grab the last two near us, chatting busily.

Joe smiles at me. He’s a pretty sight wearing a pair of faded jeans that cling to his legs and have worn white in some very interesting places, along with a navy, long-sleeved T-shirt that makes the blue of his eyes pop. It’s undoubtedly designer because he has an affection for labels that not even the owner of a Dymo could outdo. “I love our days off.”

“Me too. The best part of the week.”

He cocks his head to one side. “Do you like the adventures?”

I shrug. “It doesn’t matter to me what we do as long as I do it with you.”

His whole face softens, and he leans close. “I vote that after this, we get lunch to go and then head back to our bed for the rest of the day.”

“I was wrong. Some adventures are definitely better.”

His husky laughter is drowned out by a stir of excitement in the room as a man arrives. He’s tall with wavy blond hair and a long, lean body.

The grey-haired lady who greeted us darts over to him, hugging him and patting his arm like he’s Brad Pitt.

I narrow my eyes. “That looks very much like Ivo Ashworth-Robinson.” I look closer. “It is him. What the fuck is an artist of his calibre doing teaching a life class in North London?”

Joe bounces in his chair. “Ivo.”

I stare at my better half. “Yes, have you heard of him? He’s a world-famous photojournalist and an even more famous artist. He’s up for a big award this year. What’s he doing here of all places?”

My husband ignores me, looking past me and waving. “Ivo!”

With astonishment, I see Ivo look up and grin at the sight of my husband. He waves and begins to make his way over to us. Jealousy stirs immediately. How do they know each other? Were they lovers? Ivo reaches us. Up close, he’s even more attractive, with golden eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips.

To my astonishment, Joe wriggles out from behind his easel and hugs him. I tense, but the hug is over quickly, and Joe steps back, grinning at me. “Ivo, this is my husband, Lachlan.”

His smile is proud and blows away the last vestiges of my jealousy like cobwebs in a cold wind.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, holding my hand to shake. “I’ve long been an admirer of your work.”

His grip is firm, the fingers callused. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says, his voice husky, with a charming French accent.

I roll my eyes. “Hopefully, nothing good. That would be rather boring.”

He laughs. “He’s just like you described,” he says to Joe, who beams happily.

“I never lie.”

I shift position. “Well, not unless you’re a bride, in which case he tells more fibs than Pinocchio.”

Ivo laughs, and Joe looks at him. “So, of all the dusty village halls, you had to pick mine. What gives, Mr Ashworth-Robinson?”

“Phyllida is ill.” He looks over at me. “She’s the usual teacher and an extremely talented artist. She’s also a friend, so I said I’d stand in for her today.” He winces. “Don’t expect miracles. I’m better at doing things rather than teaching.”

“I’ll have to ask Henry,” Joe says.

“Please do. He’ll give me a glowing testimonial.”

A young man enters the room, and Ivo excuses himself to greet him. I look at Joe. “Henry?”

“Ivo’s husband. He’s Gabe’s best friend.”

I think of Joe’s friend Gabe, a sardonic lawyer. They met when Joe arranged Gabe’s wedding, and they’d become fast friends. I love Gabe and his husband, Dylan. They’re good people. Sarcastic people, but still good people. The memory of the first time I met them still makes me smile. Gabe seems to view Joe as a younger brother and had subjected me to a question-and-answer session more suited to someone being brought in by MI5, while Dylan looked like he was trying not to laugh. Eventually, Gabe nodded solemnly, indicating that I’d passed judgement, and we were allowed to eat.

“So that’s how you know each other?” I say.

Joe nods. “We meet every week for lunch. I keep saying you have to come along. You’ll fit in with the group so well.”

“I will.” It’s a promise, and I mean it. Work is a lagging second to Joe now. He comes first, and I will drop anything if he needs me.

Ivo walks to the front of the group, and everyone stops talking and turns to him expectantly. “Welcome to the class,” he says. Several people perk up at his French accent. “My name is Ivo Ashworth-Robinson. Unfortunately, Phyllida is ill today, so I will be standing in for her.”

A few people mutter as if it’s a terrible thing. They’re obviously unaware of just who Ivo is. Ivo grins, and it’s wide and warm and shaded by a rather charming arrogance. “This is the life class. It’s open to beginners because we all have to start somewhere. At first, you’ll probably focus on becoming used to drawing, but try to pay attention to the contours of the body, the elegant lines, and the curves and dips under the skin.” The group sits up, fully involved now. “Art can be both erotic and eye-opening.” He waves a languid hand as if shaping a body in his mind, and his eyes gleam with secret amusement. I wonder who he’s thinking about. “There are lots of tools in the trays. Choose the one you fancy. Maybe you will enjoy a pencil, or perhaps your taste runs to the smudge of charcoal.”

The lady beside me is already fussing in the tray next to her easel, picking up and discarding pastels, but her companion shrugs. “I only came for the nudity.”

“Me too,” Ivo drawls. “But don’t tell my husband.” There’s a ripple of laughter, and he shrugs. “It doesn’t matter what medium you choose. It’s the process that is important.” He steps back. “And for a life class to work, we need a body.” He throws out a hand, gesturing towards the young man who arrived earlier. He’s wearing a long silk robe decorated in shades of brown and gold. “This is Georgie.”

Georgie saunters into the middle of the room. He’s a pretty man, slender, with wavy black hair and a sharp little face. “Afternoon,” he says, eyeing Ivo approvingly. “This is a rare treat.”

“Thank you.”

He winks. “I meant for you.”

Ivo laughs. “Very true. Would you like to disrobe in the other room?”

Georgie waves a casual hand. “Oh god, no need for that. They’ll see my bits all too soon.” He sets his bag down on the floor by the dais. “I’ll put some music on, though. I can’t sit in silence. It does my head in.”

We all nod, and he opens his bag. He produces a speaker, which he sets neatly on the dais, and then unpacks some water and three small bottles of nail varnish. “Once you’ve all got the pose, I might do my nails,” he announces, and we all nod again like toy dogs. He smiles graciously at us, then shucks his robe and climbs onto the dais. He has a beautiful body, but it isn’t a patch on my husband, and I wink at Joe.

“How do you want me?” Georgie calls cheerfully, standing with his hands on his hips like he’s at the supermarket examining the vegetable selection. His cock is long and thin, and his pubes are a startling black against his pale skin.

“On your back reclining, I think,” Ivo says, pursing his lips.

“Story of my life,” Georgie says, and a ripple of laughter passes around the room. He gets into position while Ivo walks around him, eyeing Georgie’s pose from all angles. He finally nods in satisfaction.

Georgie settles in. “Bit different from flowers, eh?” he says cheekily.

Ivo is known for his vibrant flower paintings. He chuckles. “A rose is but a rose.”

Georgie winks. “But I haven’t even shown you my petals yet.”

“Flirt,” Ivo says, and the young man grins at him. Ivo steps back and eyes us all. “Okay. This is the position. Select your materials and draw what you see. Follow the lines. Experiment and have fun. I will give you time to get started, and then I will move around and offer help if needed.”

He immediately heads over to an easel set up to one side. This one is much more battered than ours, and I bet it’s his own. He rifles through an old leather bag, taking out a piece of charcoal, and then starts to draw the model. In contrast with the rest of us, his strokes are sure and deft, his eyes steady and withdrawn as he looks at the model.

“I think I’d rather watch Ivo paint than try my hand at it,” Joe muses.

“Is that because you can’t paint?”

“I’ll have you know that I was quite the piss artist in my day.”

“It still is your day,” I say tartly.

Georgie’s music plays, and I lose myself in the lines I’m tracing on my page. It’s surprisingly enjoyable. I find myself switching off my busy brain and focusing on the now.

Joe is not so good at it, which isn’t surprising. He’s too on the go to enjoy sitting still for long. He fidgets, picking things up and gazing around. Soon, he’s up and out of his seat and wandering. Laughter and chatter follow in his wake as he bounces from one easel to another. I shake my head, repressing a smile when I hear him discussing a wedding venue with a young couple three easels down.

Ivo comes up next to me. He studies my drawing in silence, and I shift, surprisingly nervous. It’s not essential that I can draw. It doesn’t impact my life at all, but it’s a bit like being in a school pantomime and having Kenneth Branagh turn up to watch.

“That’s good,” he finally says.

“ Really ?”

He raises one dark eyebrow. “You seem surprised?”

“I was terrible at art at school.”

He shrugs. “We get better at a lot of things as we grow older.” He pats my shoulder. “You should take it up.”

I’m surprised to hear myself say, “I might.”

“Plenty of classes are around if you can’t make this one. I’ll text you some.”

I smile at him. “That’s very kind of you. Let me give you my number.”

“No need. I’ve got your home number. Joe gave it to me when I saw him and Gabe for lunch the other day.” He eyes me. “You should come along when we meet up. My husband Henry would love to meet you.” He grins. It’s wide and warm and very charming. I bet he was a heartbreaker in his time. “I must say I’ve heard so much about you. You’re famous.”

I put on an earnest face. “Well, I must say anyone can reach my level of fame if they work hard. They’ve just got to be prepared to get drunk-married in Vegas, lose their husband, and then lie their way into a comedy of errors that ABBA soundtracked.”

He bursts into laughter. We turn when the door opens and a man sidles into the room. He’s stunning, with a thin, angular face and dark red hair. I wonder if he’s waiting for the next class. Maybe he’s the model.

One look at Ivo changes that assumption. Ivo’s whole face lights up, all his previous arrogance gone in an instant and replaced by pure love. “Henry,” he exclaims and strides over to him.

I see the wedding ring on the redhead’s finger and realise this must be Ivo’s husband.

“Sorry for intruding,” Henry says, his voice very posh. “I thought I’d pick you up for lunch.”

“Really?” Ivo asks, raising an eyebrow.

Henry laughs. “Fuck no. I wanted to see what sort of disaster you’d made of teaching painting. Gabe had a tenner on someone crying before they got their crayons out.”

“And as you see, it is more like Dead Poet’s Society .”

“Let’s hope not. The tables are very old here and don’t look up to anyone’s weight.” Henry spots Joe and waves enthusiastically. “Did Joe bring Lachlan?” he asks, unaware I’m sitting nearby.

Ivo grins. “Ah, so that’s why you’re here.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” When Ivo raises his eyebrow, Henry slumps. “Oh, okay. He’s like the Scarlet Pimpernel, only in pinstripe with fewer tumbrils.”

“He’s just there,” Ivo says, pointing.

I wave at them.

“ Ivo ,” Henry exclaims. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ivo blinks. “Because you didn’t ask me, and you’d still have talked in a tone designed for even the dead to hear and obey. You posh people,” he says with great affection, and Henry rolls his eyes.

He wanders over. He’s even prettier close up. “Lachlan,” he says, holding out his hand. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” I smile as I shake his hand, liking him already. He has a very charming air about him and seems almost mischievous.

“We’re doing dinner next week, and luckily, Dylan is cooking. He wants to know if you’ll be coming?”

“Of course,” I say, meaning it, and he studies me for a long second. Then he nods as if satisfied and gives me an unguarded smile, the power of which makes me blink. I have the sense that I’ve passed some sort of test.

“Good.”

“Henry,” Georgie shouts. “Why do I never meet you when I’ve got my clothes on?”

Henry laughs and walks over to hug the model. “That sounds so much more interesting than it actually is.”

Warmth hits my side, and I turn and throw my arm over Joe’s shoulders as he studies my drawing.

“That’s good,” he says.

“No need to sound so surprised.”

“You made it sound like you couldn’t even draw a stick figure.”

“I’ve actually enjoyed it.” I smile at him, pushing his dark hair back. “Sorry you can’t say the same.”

“But I have,” he says in blatant astonishment.

“Really?”

He nods. “Of course. Haven’t we been together?”

I stay still for a second, fighting the urge to kiss him, and then giving in, I drop a quick kiss on his mouth. “I love you.”

“I love you too. And you need to do more of this.” He eyes the sassy Georgie, who is now painting his nails and having a conversation with Henry about EastEnders . It appears that Ivo has lost control. Joe moves nearer. “But I think I’ll be your model next time.”

“I’m not sure I want my husband sitting spreadeagled for the world to see.”

“I could never get into that position. I think Georgie does a lot of yoga,” Joe says, watching him. He looks at me and winks. “No, we’ll do it at home.”

Mischief and sexual allure are a heady mix in his eyes, and I swallow hard. “That’s the best idea you’ve ever had.”

He leans closer. “I bet it isn’t. I know a shop that sells edible body paint.”

“You are the gift that keeps on giving ,” I say fervently, hearing his laughter echo around the dusty village hall.