Page 2 of Tribute Act

She gave me a tired smile and kissed my cheek. “Okay. Thanks, love.”

Once she was gone and I’d locked up behind her, I texted Gav.

Mini crisis at café. Will be late. N x

His answer arrived a minute later.

No bailing, Nathan. You promised to come with.

I sighed, heavy, then texted back.

Not bailing - will get there soonest. N

The pipework under the sink was utterly fucked. It looked as though, after snapping one of the fittings in half, Derek had somehow forced it back into place and fixed it there with a mix of mastic and superglue, half of which had leaked inside the tube—no wonder it had blocked again so soon. By the time I’d worked out the broken part wasn’t salvageable, driven to the nearest home store to pick up a replacement, driven back, and fitted it properly, it was near enough eight.

I dragged myself out from under the sink, sweaty, tired, and spattered with mastic and grime, and turned on the tap. When the water flowed down the plug hole, I was ready to sob with relief.

“Back in business,” I muttered. Thank Christ. The last thing we needed was to lose half our weekend trading to a plumbing crisis. And if I got a shift on, I just might make it to Plymouth for the long-awaited night out I’d been promising to my best friend for weeks now.

My stomach rumbled. A bacon buttie for breakfast had been my last proper meal, and I’d been too busy for anything else all day. I’d found a Snickers bar in the glove compartment of the car on my way to the home store and had scarfed it down in about five seconds. And that had been it for food today.

I turned to the fridge, stomach cramping with hunger, and examined the contents. There were ingredients for heaps of things, but I was too hungry to cook, or even assemble a half-decent sandwich, and anyway, the kitchen had been cleaned at the end of the shift. I didn’t want to mess it up again. I scoured the shelves for something I could eat immediately. It was pretty much cake or nothing. Well, there was ice cream of course—Dilly’s was, first and foremost an ice cream parlour—but in truth, you got a bit sick of ice cream when you worked with it every day. Instead, I reached for one of our best-sellers—the carrot cake.

Carrots were healthy, right? This would probably count as one of my five a day. Maybe even two if I had a big slice.

I thought about that, then served myself a double portion, added a sinful mound of whipped cream, and shovelled down the lot, eating so quickly I barely tasted it.

When I was done, I stared down at the empty plate unhappily. The cake sat in my stomach like a rock. I could practically feel my blood slowing in my veins, heavy with the fat and sugar I’d consumed.

When I’d lived in London, I’d had to work long hours, but I’d eaten better then than I did now. Which was shameful considering I worked in catering these days. London had so many healthy food places that it had been easy to follow a high-protein, low-carb diet, without having to plan much at all. Plus, having a gym in my office building had meant I’d been able to work out most days. When I’d moved back to Cornwall, I’d boasted to all my London friends about the relaxed and healthy lifestyle I’d be enjoying, but the truth was, I was more stressed now than I’d ever been and had put on, well, quite a few pounds.

Sighing, I packed up the rest of the cake and put it in the fridge, then took my plate to the now-unblocked sink and washed up. All I had to do before I left was stack the chairs on the tables and give the floor a quick once-over with the mop before setting the alarm, locking up, and heading out.

Dilly’s had a great location. Porthkennack was one of those cute little Cornish seasidey places tourists love. The café was on a narrow side street just off the seafront. Even better, my place was only a few minutes’ walk away, a second-floor flat in a cobbled lane up the hill with views of the sea.

My flat was small and cosy—though twice the size of my London place, with a spare bedroom for any friends who cared to visit—and I loved it. I loved living in the touristy part of town, despite how noisy it was, sometimes, on summer evenings. When I first came back to Porthkennack, it had been winter and almost unbearably quiet—I hadn’t been able to sleep for the quiet after my years of living in London. It had been a relief when the first wave of tourists had arrived.

As I climbed the stairs to my flat, wearily rubbing at the aching back of my neck and yawning, I wondered if I could face a night out tonight. Maybe a movie on Netflix and an early bed would be a better bet?

But no. As tempting as that was, I’d promised Gav that I wouldn’t let him down again tonight. Especially since this was his first proper looking-to-get-laid night out since the big breakup with Carrie. And of course, there was the possibility of picking someone up myself—when I considered how long it had been since I’d had sex, I wanted to weep.

My trouble was, I’d never been into one-night stands. Ever since I’d met my first boyfriend at seventeen, I’d bounced from steady relationship to steady relationship. Currently, I was in the longest dry spell I’d had since my teenage days, having broken up with my last boyfriend, Christian, shortly after moving back to Porthkennack. Preoccupied with sorting out the then-failing, now-recovering family business, I hadn’t had the energy for a long-distance relationship with Christian on top of everything else.

Perhaps that had been a clue—that I’d felt like I needed energy to keep it going. But honestly, it fit the pattern of how most of my relationships went—drifting into pleasant coupledom with a guy I liked, only to decide a couple of years later that I didn’t feel strongly enough about him to make a permanent commitment. Maybe it was just how I was built—maybe I wasn’t capable of more? That was certainly what Christian had thought. He’d said he wanted to be loved “deeply and passionately”—and he was right when he’d said I couldn’t give him that.

I did like being in a relationship, though. I liked companionship and sharing a life with someone. I liked having sex with someone who I knew inside out, and not having to wonder what that person thought of my body or whether they liked what I was doing. I liked being able to have unselfconscious, loud, joyful sex, and I wasn’t the kind of guy who found it easy to let go in that way with a stranger.

Whatever my reservations on one-night stands, I still felt like I needed sex. Some of my relationships might have been emotionally lukewarm but they had all been physically successful. I loved sex and I was good at it. I was just atrocious at flirting. Too used to having a steady boyfriend and not having to make the effort to pull someone. It had made me complacent and awkward about the mating rituals of dating and hookups. The thought of approaching a hot guy in a club had me practically cringing. Well, at least until I imagined fucking said hot guy . . . And that thought was exactly the motivation I needed to get me moving towards my wardrobe.

I reached inside and pulled out my oldest, favourite jeans—threadbare, skintight, and butter soft—and a fitted black shirt that I figured I could still squeeze into, even after two slices of carrot cake.

And then I headed for the shower.

One of the downsides to living in Porthkennack was that the nearest decent gay club was over an hour away, in Plymouth. Luckily one of my best friends from my school days, Gav, lived there. What’s more, he was bi, and following the recent demise of his long-term relationship, he was desperate to get out and meet new people, of both sexes.

It was after ten when I finally arrived at Gav’s. After he’d bitched at me for my lateness and forced me to down a couple of large vodkas to catch up with him, we headed out.

“I can’t believe how nervous I am about this,” Gav said as we walked. “My stomach’s in knots.”