Page 5 of These Old Lies

Normally, Charlie didn’t linger with his partners, women or men. If the business at hand was done, he much preferred to button up and carry on. But there was something about the way Ned completely gave it up for Charlie, about the vulnerability when he came, that made Charlie stay with Ned until he knew the man was right with himself. The posh officer probably didn’t even notice, but Charlie didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone.

So he closed his trousers and waited, not touching except where the sides of their hips and legs brushed up against each other. Basking in the memories of what they had just done, he stored it away as inspiration the next time he needed to lose himself in his thoughts.

Ned straightened up further, his breathing still irregular. Charlie reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it, took a smoke, and passed it to Ned. “Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

Ned reached out for the cigarette with a hand that trembled slightly. “Well, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Villiers, but we’re still at war.” He took a long drag then passed the smoke back to Charlie.

“Smart-arse.” Before he could second-guess himself, he added, “You should call me Charlie.”

Silence. Maybe he shouldn’t have offered, shouldn’t have presumed that a lieutenant would want to be on such terms with a lowly corporal. Then he was immediately angry at himself for caring what the bloody lieutenant thought. He stood, dusting off his trousers. “Tell the Jerrys I said hi…”

Ned's long, lean form stood beside him, and he looked straight into Charlie’s eyes. “See you in two weeks, Charlie.” Ned whispered the last word, a shy smile teasing his lips.

Charlie suddenly wanted to stroke Ned's hair, to pull him close and just feel his breathing for a while. But none of that was possible.

He put the cigarette out and left.

3 Charing Cross Pubs

London, May 1923 / Ned

The Charing Cross pub Ned had picked was bog standard in every respect—worn leather benches, an average selection of beer, and an indifferent barmaid. Ned had chosen the location because of its main and only redeeming feature: it was close to a train station, and therefore was always relatively busy with anonymous customers.

The type of place that two old acquaintances from the war might meet for a pint.

Ned had arrived obscenely early and tried to calm his nerves by sipping a glass of red wine. If his heart hadn’t been beating a thousand beats per minute, he might have noticed the taste. He assumed it was foul.

The short letter Charlie had sent to his West London flat the day after the Hat Shop Incident—as Ned mentally referred to it—had read:

Lt. Pinsent,

Drink?

– C. Villiers

Ned’s response had been to suggest meeting here in two days’ time.

Time had never seemed to pass more slowly than it had over the past forty-eight hours, and now it had reduced to a snail’s pace as he waited. His heart was beating embarrassingly quick, and he had to grip the wine glass tightly to fight the tremble in his hands. Ned had no idea what Charlie thought of him now, or what he thought of Ned’s actions the last time theywere together. Acts that Ned regretted and considered necessary in equal measure.

Charlie entered the pub right as the clock struck four.

Ned didn’t have any photos of Charlie, and over the years he had convinced himself that he didn’t really remember what his war-time lover had looked like. Seeing him again in the flesh was disorienting, the fantasy and the reality intermixing. Had he always had that small scar on the side of his jaw? How had he forgotten the size of Charlie's hands?

Ned moved to stand as Charlie approached his booth. “Can I get you a drink?” Not Ned’s most inspired opening.

“Pint of ale, please.” Ned didn’t detect any of the anger he had feared in Charlie’s response, but neither did he detect any warmth.

When Ned returned to the booth with their drinks, Charlie reached for his beer. “It’s very kind of you to agree to meet, Lieutenant.”

“Enough with that lieutenant nonsense,” Ned interrupted. “Neither of us are in uniform now. It’s Ned, please.”

“You always have been very modern, Ned.” Charlie took a long sip of his beer.

Ned swirled the wine in his glass, looking down at where Charlie’s shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his forearms covered in fine freckles. “So,” he finally said, “you’re a milliner.”

“What of it?” Charlie asked. Ned had forgotten just how prickly the man could be.

“I never imagined you…” Ned wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.