Page 2

chapter

two

The sound of the front door slamming jerks me and Joan back to life as if we’ve been electrified. For a second, we look wide-eyed at each other, and then Joan pats my arm.

“I’ll go,” she says.

I shake my head and then pin a big smile on my face. “No need. It’s just Con.” There’s a long pause, and I add briskly, “And his guest. It’ll be very nice to meet him.”

Joan rolls her eyes. “If you say so.”

“I do ,” I jerk out and stop to take a breath. “I do,” I say in a more moderate tone. “I’ll go and see what’s happening, and will you make them a coffee or something?”

She nods and walks off, muttering something that sounds very much like “arsenic” under her breath. I hope I misheard. With Joan’s knowledge of crimes and that sweet face of hers, she’d make an extremely successful serial killer.

I wipe my palms on my trousers and walk towards the foyer. I can hear the sound of murmured voices and then Con’s husky laugh, and I stop dead in my tracks. I don’t want to meet this new man who Con kisses , I think furiously. I don’t want to talk to someone who makes him laugh like that . Then I shake my head. “Don’t be silly, Frankie,” I mutter. “It’s just Con.”

I take a deep, steadying breath and pull open the door. Con and the redhead are standing close together by Mandy’s desk. She must have come in while Joan and I were talking, and now she’s putting her bag away and smiling at the two men. As I step into the room, the redhead says something, and Mandy laughs loudly. It rankles a little, which is ridiculous. But she’s our receptionist: mine and Con’s. Not his.

Con smiles at the two of them and then must catch my movement because his head turns towards me. His familiar, easy smile drops away when he sees me, and an odd expression crosses his face. I’ve seen it a lot lately, but it usually vanishes so quickly that I haven’t been able to catalogue it. It seems to combine sadness mixed with a bit of anger, and it makes my already uneasy stomach turn over when it’s directed at me.

I don’t know what I’ve done to Con. I’ve spent hours trying to work out what is wrong, but I can’t pinpoint it. One minute, he was my best friend, the person I spoke to most in the world, the one who’s got me through the last three years. And then the next, he was cross with me. I can’t ask him, though. I’ve tried to talk over the last few months, but he shuts me down each time and instantly becomes the old easygoing Con again. And I’m so relieved to see that version that I immediately forget everything. Until the next time it happens.

As if on cue, Con’s expression smooths out, and he gives me the wide smile that I’d first seen when David brought me home.

I met my husband at a concert. He was older than me and very handsome with black hair and bright blue eyes. He spotted me at the bar, and we spent the entire concert talking. I’d been immensely flattered that he’d noticed me at all. After all, I was scrawny, a quirky dresser, and had a very sharp tongue that one ex had said made me shrewish. So, not automatically a draw to most gay men. However, David had treated me as if I was the most fascinating and funny man he’d ever met.

I went home with him that night, and I never left. We didn’t get out of bed for a few weeks, and a month later, we were married—the result of another impulsive gesture from David. He proposed in bed and wouldn’t hear any of the arguments I put forward about getting to know each other outside bed first.

At the time, I saw it as him being head over heels in love and not wanting anything to stand in his way of keeping me. It would be a while before I realised that it was just the latest feckless gesture from a charismatic charmer and that his stubborn determination was nothing more than someone who’d been spoilt his whole life and never heard the word “no.”

Straight after the wedding, he brought me to the village to meet his best friend. I remember walking into the old pub, feeling my hands shake with nervousness and seeing this tall, broad-shouldered man stand up. He was tattooed and off-puttingly trendy-looking in a way that suggested he wasn’t even trying to be that. However, his smile was warm, and his brown eyes were kind, and I’d instantly felt at ease.

There’s just something very warm and steady about Con—a sense that he’s someone who will take care of you. And that’s been proved over and over again in the years since we lost David. I’ve never deviated from my first impression of Con despite having to overhaul my image of my own husband drastically.

“Frankie?” Con’s voice recalls me to the present. He’s once again giving me that affable smile of his that, for some reason, irritates me today. It’s like a prickling under my skin as if I’ve swallowed nettles.

“Con,” I say. There’s an edge to my voice that I don’t think has ever been there before when I talk to him and when his eyes widen, I make haste to smile at him. Then, I extend the smile to the redhead, who’s watching us curiously. “And?”

Con jerks. “Oh, this is Tim.”

“Very nice to meet you,” I say, but he just shrugs.

“Yeah, same,” he says with a casualness that’s within a hairsbreadth of being rude.

He turns his back on me to speak to Mandy, and there’s an awkward silence. I blink, but Con sprints into the conversation to save the day like a scruffy superhero destroying all conversational problems.

“I wanted to show Tim the workshop.”

“Oh.” I search for something to say. Anything would do as he watches me with that funny stare again. I settle for banality. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

“It was time to come back. Gene played the last gig, and he’s off to Barbados. He seemed very happy.”

“That’ll last for the next five minutes,” I say waspishly. “He wouldn’t stay happy if he was married to Pamela Anderson and had Delia Smith catering his dinners.”

He laughs, and just for a second, I feel at ease again—that old familiar feeling like coming through the door of my cottage and kicking my shoes off.

Then Tim comes up next to him and wraps his arm around Con’s waist.

Tim smiles at me, but there’s nothing warm about this one. It’s cold and dismissive. “So, you know Gene?”

“A little bit,” I say, wondering where the barely veiled antagonism is coming from. “Do you?”

He nods. “I’m his dresser on tour.”

I wonder whether he gave him that ugly hat that makes the rocker look like Worzel Gummidge on a week-long bender, but I refrain from asking. However, I can’t stop my quick look at Con to see if he’s laughing silently along with me the way he usually does in company. My stomach twists when I find him watching Tim instead with the warmth in his eyes that’s usually reserved for me.

Con’s had many men drift through his life over the years, but he doesn’t tend to hold on to them very tightly, and they never last. I wonder with a sick feeling whether Tim will be the exception. I’ve become used to it being just me and Con.

Con pats Tim on his shoulder, and it’s strangely startling. I’m more used to seeing his hands move quickly over a guitar than a man, the long fingers tracing invisible patterns on the wood with his tattoos bright on his hands and the dull gleam of his dad’s wedding ring on his thumb.

Tim clears his throat, and I flush as I realise that I’m just standing staring at them and that Con is looking back, a steady note of almost challenge in his eyes. It feels odd, like I’m looking at a stranger with my friend’s face. As if he’s been taken over by the pod people in those old films he loves to watch. Unfortunately, this awkward silence will not be broken by Con eating Tim’s brains, so I hasten into speech.

“So, is that where the two of you met?”

Tim laughs and runs his finger over Con’s hand. “It’s where we met, but I’ve had my eye on him for ages. And this time, he looked back.”

Con shoots him a funny look, and a too-long silence falls that I unfortunately decide to break. “Lovely,” I say faintly with zero enthusiasm in my voice. I notice Mandy watching us as if we’re in an episode of Emmerdale .

I have zero desire to be the subject of any more gossip in this village. I’ve never managed to live down the time that I locked David out of the cottage after a particularly spectacular row, and he decided to post flowers through the letterbox while naked. People in the village still treat me as if I’m Liam Gallagher. I, therefore, step back, breaking the staring contest that Tim seems to be having with me.

“Well, I’ll let you get on,” I say brightly.

“That would be good,” Tim says, and there’s a steely tone in his voice that tells me he’s not just talking about a workshop tour.

Luckily the moment is broken when there’s a flash of feathers, and Hank Marvin lands on Con’s shoulder. Tim shrieks and jumps back as Hank kneads Con’s shoulder and begins to croon the opening bit of “The Lightning Tree” by The Settlers.

“What the fuck ?” Tim breathes.

“I know,” I sigh. “Hank Marvin is deeply in love with Con and for some reason thinks this is their theme tune. I do wish he’d learn another song.”

Con looks up at me, the old familiar laughter lighting his eyes and making my chest feel warm and light again. “What song would you choose, then?”

“I don’t know,” I say, putting one hand on my hip. “What about ‘Birdhouse in your Soul’?”

Con’s roar of laughter fills the room. He’s always liked it when I’m sassy, but a quick look at Tim shows he’s not quite as enamoured.

“How funny,” he sniffs and manoeuvres himself back under Con’s arm. “I suppose you’re old enough to remember that tune.”

Con stiffens. “Tim, that’s rude,” he chides, but I shake my head, staring steadily at Tim. We both have each other’s measure now.

“Not at all,” I say lightly. “I may be the wrong side of twenty, but I still have all my own teeth.” I show them to him in a bright, cold smile.

“You’re twenty-seven,” Con says. “Hardly ancient.”

“Yes, but that’s five hundred in gay years.”

Con chuckles, and irritation floods Tim’s face. Along with the pettiness, it makes him much less attractive, but unfortunately, Con can’t see that.

“Well, I suppose when you dress like that, it’s easy to make a mistake,” he says.

I look down at my outfit and then at his baggy trousers that are riding low, displaying the band of his Andrew Christian underwear. “Do you mean like an adult rather than Justin Bieber?” I say equally sweetly.

Con stirs. “Tim didn’t mean anything by that, Frankie. He’s a costume designer, so fashion is important to him.”

“Of course,” I say, looking Tim up and down. “A good fashion sense is a rare and beautiful thing.”

The silence is broken by Joan walking into the room holding two cups of coffee. Hank gives a trill of delight. “Thirty-two stab wounds,” he cries. “And a final hammer blow.”

“What the fuck?” Tim breathes.

“Here we go,” Joan says sweetly. “One coffee for you, Con.” Her smile dims as she turns to Tim. “And one for you,” she says in a chilly voice, proffering the chipped old mug that I’m sure I threw away last week.

“Not for me,” he says carelessly. “I only drink green tea. My body doesn’t do well with toxins.”

“Just your tongue, then, dear,” she says, her tone dripping with sweetness.

Con chokes on his coffee. “I think we’ll have a look at the workshop,” he says quickly. “And then we’ll get out of your hair.”

“Not working today?” I blurt out, and I’m aware of Tim’s smirk as Con turns to me.

“No, I’m going to show him over the house. He’s staying with me for a few days.”

“He’s staying with you?” I say in astonishment. Then I cough. “How lovely,” I say, swallowing hard. “A few days together.”

“I hope that’s not too long, dear,” Joan says as she takes Tim’s cup away. “When virtual strangers are stuck together for a protracted period of time, then extreme bouts of violence can occur. Just ask the couple who took a hammer to each other while on holiday in Abergavenny.”

“Forty whacks,” Hank intones and flutters to her shoulder as she sails out of the room.

There’s a long silence. “Lovely,” I finally say faintly. When I look up, I’m expecting Con to be angry. Instead, he’s staring after Joan with a face of barely concealed laughter. He looks back and catches my eye, and for a brief, precious second, we are in complete accord on the need to laugh.

Then the phone rings and breaks the moment. Tim stirs. “I’ll just nip to the loo,” he says. He shakes his head. “This is a weird place, Connie.”

I dig my nails into my palms as Con gives him directions. No one else calls him Connie apart from me. It’s always been something special between the two of us, and now this stranger is using it with a familiarity that says it’s not the first time. Did Con tell him to use it?

“You alright, Frankie?”

I jerk as I realise that Con is staring at me and that we’re alone. Well, alone apart from the parrot who just flew back in and our receptionist, who is managing to hold a conversation on the phone while itemising our every word, ready to disseminate it in the Red Lion later on.

“I’m fine,” I say. I look after Tim. “So, that’s a bit of a surprise. You bringing Tim home.”

“Why?”

The word is just sharp enough to make me blink, and I tense.

“No reason,” I say quickly. “He must have made an impression on you. Like an iron on a silk blouse,” I say under my breath.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.”

“It didn’t sound like nothing.”

I go to move back in a huff, and he grabs my hand. It’s a gentle grip, but it manages to stay me because a tingle shoots down my arm, and I stop still. I stare at him. This sniping is completely unlike our usual relationship, and it feels horrible.

“Con?” I say, and his face clears slowly. Like he’s pushing clouds away with an effort. Then, finally, he straightens up and lets go of my hand.

“Never mind,” he says, his words containing a snap that’s alien to his customary lazy good nature.

There’s a brief silence that I rack my brains to fill. Of course, I don’t usually have to do it with Con as our conversation flows as naturally as the sun’s path.

I finally think of something. “We’ve got a big contract with Jimmy Fitch up for grabs,” I say, the words tumbling over themselves.

For a second, it looks like he’s struggling to follow me, and then he sighs, and the tumultuous emotions I’ve briefly glimpsed disappear like steam from a kettle. “That’s good.” Then his brow wrinkles. “But he can’t play the guitar.”

I shrug. “I know, but he has got a lot of outfits to match the right ones.”

“Fucking hell,” he groans, and I grin at him, so relieved to have a bit of normality back that I’d turn cartwheels if it wouldn’t ruin my hair.

“Oh yes, Con. Six guitars to match six lucky outfits.”

“Is it to camouflage his distinct lack of any musical ability?”

“You may say it in that tone of voice, but our bank balance will certainly never agree with you.”

He runs his fingers through his hair. It makes the strands stick up in a curiously endearing way. “Just for once, I’d like the ability to say no to a ridiculous job like this.”

“Well, unfortunately, David didn’t leave us that choice,” I remind him softly.

David had been away a lot before he died, and we were to find that his time away had primarily been taken up by running up huge debts. It’s taken us three years to break even again, and that’s with a lot of creative manoeuvring.

I grab his hand. “Soon,” I whisper. “We’ll get there eventually, and you’ll be able to wave away any attempts to make you craft Chanel guitars.”

He smiles wryly at me. “Promise?”

I become aware that I’m standing far too close to him and that he’s watching me with a wary look on his face. I step back flustered, and unfortunately, I collide with the bin. It’s only with a lot of flailing that I recover myself without falling on my arse, and of course, it’s in time for Tim to come back and witness it.

“Oh dear,” he smirks. “Someone needs dance lessons.”

“They’d be no good,” I say lightly, trying to ignore my red cheeks. “I’ve got about as much dancing ability as John Sergeant on Strictly Come Dancing .”

“It’s true,” Con laughs. “He’s hardly Anton du Beke.”

“I’d have been a terrible partner for him. He’d have lost that fixed smile of his very quickly.”

“Yes. You’re much too sharp.” It’s said almost too affectionately, and Tim frowns.

“So, are we going to see this workshop?” he says sharply.

Con looks at me. “Only if Frankie has finished with me?”

I’d like to start ,I think and then jerk. What the fuck?

“Of course,” I say and then pause. “Why are you back? You never said.”

“It’s your birthday tomorrow.”

I groan. “I’m ignoring it. Please, can you do the same?”

“No,” he says implacably. “I’m bloody sick of ignoring it.”

“We just have so much other stuff that we need to focus time and money on.”

“Did you not just say that we’ve got someone interested in me making six guitars? I’m sure that was you.”

“Well, yes, but?—”

“Great,” he interrupts. “So, we can focus on your birthday now. Wonderful.”

“Oh no,” I start to say, but with his usual immaculate timing, he exits the room, sweeping Tim after him and leaving with the last word.

I look over at Mandy, and she offers me a sympathetic smile. “It’s no good arguing with Con,” she informs me wisely. “He’s got a way of winning any arguments.”

I shake my head and walk into my office, closing the door with a snap. However, that layer of wood isn’t enough to stop me from hearing Tim’s husky laugh. I look down at my hands that have tightened into fists.

What is happening here? I wonder. Why do I feel so antagonistic towards Tim?

“Beyond him being a bit of a wanker,” I say out loud and then sigh.

It can’t be jealousy. There have been lots of men in Con’s past. I’ve even met a couple of them, and beyond disapproving of them as not worthy of Con, I’ve never felt any anger towards them. In fact, I went the other way and tried to befriend them during their usual short duration as Con’s boyfriend. Con was David’s best friend, and he’s now mine, and I’ve always wanted his happiness more than anything.

So, what’s changed. Why am I so bothered at seeing him with Tim?

A knock comes on the door, thankfully stopping my thoughts from going round and round like a hamster on a wheel.

“Mr Fitch’s people are here, Frankie,” Joan calls.

“Coming,” I shout. I straighten my T-shirt and try my best Tom Cruise impression. “Show me the money.” It doesn’t work. Probably because the only thing we have in common is our height.