Page 79 of These Old Lies
Ned forced his hands to steady as he finished his buttons, mind continuing to whirl. There was another way to look at this, though. Was this the trump card he was looking for, the way to secure the blind eyes for Hugh, to get a sympathetic trial for Charlie? The game had been shifted on its axis, and Ned would not miss the opportunity.
27 A Room for Charlie
Arras, Evening 30 July 1932 / Charlie
As promised, Charlie met Ned at seven at his hotel, and they walked to a small bistro with low ceilings and candlelight. While Charlie looked at the menu, Ned ordered a bottle of rich red wine from a book that was as thick as a city directory. After the waiter uncorked it at the table, Ned had grasped the glass in his long fingers, hazel eyes sparkling as he swirled the wine. He held the wine up to his nose, breathing deep, eyes closed, eyelashes resting delicately on his cheeks. Only then did he bring the glass to his mouth, the rim pressing into his bottom lip, his tongue swiping a drop from his lips after. Finally satisfied, Ned gave the waiter a small smile and thanked him in soft French.
Fucking hell.
Charlie cleared his throat and took a drink like he normally did, a decent gulp. Anything to distract him from the man sitting across from him. The red was smooth and rich. He’d only drunk wine this good once before, in that brothel in France, when Ned had turned his world upside down in a single evening.
Luckily, before Charlie could make a complete fool of himself, the waiter arrived with their boeuf bourguignon. The dish was rich and savoury, piping hot with vegetables and meat so tender that Charlie barely needed his knife. “This meal alone was worth the trip to France.”
A smile spread across Ned’s face. “Remember the bourguignon in Covent Garden? I thought you were going to get arrested for the sounds you were making.”
Charlie laughed at the memory, even if it was a stab to the gut to think about those glorious moments of ’23. He and Ned had been doing so well pretending they were just old army friends.
Ned must have seen Charlie’s frown because he then asked, “Should I not mention our… past?”
“I’m an arse, Pinsent, but I’m not that much of an arse.” Charlie wanted to prove to Ned he meant what he said, so he asked the question that had been burning in his mind since he had seen Ned two days ago. “Do you have any specific dining companions now?”
“I’ve had to be very discreet. Wait for my bohemian past to become an amusing party anecdote. George and I’ve started to go on holidays together on the coast, though.” Charlie’s stomach twisted, even though he had expected such an answer. “He still works at the Treasury, hoarding each pound like it is his own.”
Charlie reminded himself that he wanted Ned to be happy, and George had been a friend at one point. “Still going out to the Lilypond? To Soho?” He didn’t think Ned noticed the forced levity in his voice.
Ned shook his head. “Only on rare occasions these days.”
“But you still have places to be yourself?” Charlie absolutely should not be asking this question. Should not be curious about the private desires of wearing silky clothes and make-up.
Ned gave no indication if Charlie’s nosiness bothered him. “I can’t take the risk of being spotted. George and I’ve our private circle, though, friends with whom we can be ourselves. The Tautons remain a riot, although Sophie got married, if you could believe.”
Never mind the wine, Charlie couldn’t help but drink in the sight of the man across the table, the long lines of his arms and legs. A body as responsive as it was strong. A visceral memory shot through Charlie’s mind, of Ned naked, in bed, arched in ecstasy as Charlie ran a fingernail from his chest to his inner thigh.
He really, really should not be thinking such thoughts.
“Do you miss making hats?” Ned's question was worded even moreinnocently than Charlie’s question had been.
“Closed the door on all that.” For once he wished he had a different answer.
Ned leaned back in his chair and studied Charlie, his expression thoughtful.
The arrival of the tarte tatin distracted them both and Charlie had almost forgotten Ned’s odd look until they were scraping the last of the apple and caramelised pastry from their plates.
“My meetings this afternoon were quite dull. Gave me a lot of time to think.” Ned reached into his pocket and slid a key across the table. “Once upon a time, you protected me for a night in a French hotel. Tonight, I want to offer the same. This is the key to a hotel room. A room for you to be, to do, whatever you want.”
Charlie knew he shouldn’t take the key. He wasn’t complicated like Ned, needing fancy clothes or make-up to feel like himself. He had made his choice in ’24 He had told Ned only that morning that he had no regrets.
Except… the laughter and smiles of Gert and Millie danced in his mind. Against scandal, against the risk of losing their futures, they’d chosen each other and the unknown in Paris. Refused to abandon their love, broken cars and foreign countries be damned.
Why couldn’t Charlie have an evening to know what it would be like to have made a different decision? A path where being queer wasn’t something that lived only inside Charlie, but in how he acted?
Charlie raised his wine glass and in a single rough gesture knocked back the rest of the red. Ignoring the glint of candlelight on his wedding ring, he reached for the key.
???
Charlie followed Ned back to the hotel, through the lobby, into the lift, and down the hall, until they were facing a solid wooden door with the same numbers as those on the key. Charlie’s blood felt fizzy, electric, as the weight of the key in his hand seemed to grow with every minute.
His hand hesitated slightly before inserting the key into the lock andstriding into the room.