Famous Last, page 7
“That’s a nice little flat you got there.”
“Which the landlord wants back next Feb,” said Spencer, letting out a tired sigh.
“Seriously?” said his father, turning briefly to check him. “Maybe it’s time to think about buying, son. You know your mother and I are more than happy to stump up a deposit.”
Spencer’s parents constantly fretted about him living in London, and had offered the deposit for him to buy somewhere a number of times. The problem was that Spencer wanted to feel more settled before he made that kind of commitment.
“I know, Dad. And that’s really kind of you both. But I still haven’t decided what I’m doing with my life.”
Once again a comfortable calm descended.
“And on the subject of my sons’ dating lives, how about you?” said his father. “Any new fellow on the horizon? Would be nice to hear that at least one of my sons is settling down.”
When Spencer had come out at eighteen, his parents had been totally cool about having a gay son, especially as their oldest appeared to be on a mission to inseminate the whole fertile female population of Southern England. Even so, Spencer cringed whenever his father asked if he had a boyfriend. For a brief moment he wondered whether to mention Blake getting engaged—they knew about him and Blake, even though they’d never met him—but then decided to keep the news to himself.
“Not much going on out there right now, Dad.”
“Not even on that phone app? Grumblr, isn’t it?”
Spencer couldn’t help sniggering.
“Grindr. Not my style.”
“Really? I thought all the gay boys hooked up through those online dating apps these days. Your brother used to have a waiting list courtesy of his straight one, Tinkler.”
“Tinder!” said Spencer, horrified at the thought of an app by the name his father supplied.
“That’s the one.”
Sometimes he wondered if his father made the verbal faux pas deliberately. But his brother’s Tinder adventures had been the talk of the family. In fact, Spencer had told Bev that if his brother had not been among one of the first twenty members clambering to sign up to the launch of the dating app, he would be shocked stupid. His father had once likened Garrett’s carefully orchestrated dating life to the precision of a traffic police officer at a busy intersection when the traffic lights had failed, sometimes with two or three dates lined up back-to-back in a single evening.
“My brother is a gigolo. End of subject. How are you and Mum doing? Made any new friends down here yet?”
Long before he had taken early retirement from the police force, Spencer’s father had made clear his dream for them to retire to Bournemouth. And six months after his last day, they had sold the Merton Park home Spencer and his brother had known since childhood and moved to a bungalow on the south coast. But, as with all things in life, the fantasy had not lived up to the reality, and, five years later, they had made very few new friends.
“Not really. We joined the Bournemouth Conservative Club briefly. Your mother found them all a bit uppity. Not really our sort of people. But your Aunt Kathleen’s only down the road in Southampton and our old neighbours, Bill and Mandy Sampson, came down to stay for a week. So we’re never short of company.”
His father had spent the first couple of years working on the bungalow, gutting the interior and getting the overgrown garden up to snuff, so he had been happily occupied. Now, with only the exterior paintwork needing some serious reconsideration, he had more time on his hands. But whereas the Wyrrells of Merton Park had tended to be social magnets with their neighbours—largely because the family home had belonged to Spencer’s grandfather and great grandfather—the retirees of their Bournemouth neighbourhood tended to keep themselves to themselves.
Finally the Volvo slowed in front of their bungalow. In the daylight, with its powder-pink walls, hot-pink front door, white-painted trimmings and white window boxes, the single-storey, three-bedroom abode looked like a doll’s house. All of the men in the family detested the colour scheme, but apparently a woman’s opinion trumped them all. Only Garrett’s motorcycles lent the property a semblance of masculinity. He had acquired another since Spencer had last been home, a new black Triumph standing next to his sleek scarlet Ducati Monster 1200S, both lit up by the home security lighting and parked in the driveway.
“Go say hello to your mother. I’m going to pick up the nosh.”
“Don’t they deliver?”
“They do, but I want to give the old girl a longer run in this cold weather, while I’ve got her warm. There’s your mother now.”
Spencer grinned at seeing a warm light and a familiar silhouette fill the front door. While his father kept the engine running, Spencer got out and grabbed his bag from the back seat. As usual, his mum waited to give him a hug. She was a congenital hugger, and always had been, even when he’d brought friends home from school. Tonight she had on grey tracksuit bottoms and a pale lemon crew neck sweater, which showcased her red curly hair. While his father could happily project manage all the structural changes to their new home including digging up the garden, Coleen Wyrrell provided the interior design and the pretty flowerbed arrangements. Which was why the interior of their home would not look out of place in a home design magazine or on a lifestyle television show. Figuring he’d better get the greeting out of the way, he walked into her waiting arms and had the life squeezed out of him.
“How are you, darling?”
Where Garrett had inherited their father’s flinty-coloured irises and mother’s tightly curled, ginger hair, Spencer had lucked out with his father’s thick brown locks and his mother’s sea green eyes.
“Grmph. Mmm’okay.”
“Where’s your father?” she asked, letting him breathe again and peering over his shoulder.
“What? The Karl Lagerfeld wannabe, you mean?” he said, causing his mother to snicker and slap him gently on the shoulder. “I bet that look went down like a string vest and a knotted hanky hat at the Conservative Club.”
“Oh, honestly, darling. Those people. You’d think they were descended from royalty, the way they looked at us over their true blue surgical masks. Have you eaten? You’re looking a little malnourished.”
“Had a quick sandwich on the train, but not really anything much since lunch. Dad’s giving the car a bit of a run and gone to pick up the takeaway.”
“I was going to do one of my lovely casseroles, but Garrett insisted on Chinese.”
Thank you, Garrett, thought Spencer. He remembered the last casserole his mother had conjured containing beef chunks, barley wine—she’d run out of red wine—prunes with the stones still in, mostly shelled walnuts and the plastic top of a spice jar of dried chillies which had somehow found its way into the pot.
“Is he here?”
“Watching American rugby. Go on through.”
After he had stepped past her, he stopped and turned.
“American what?”
“You know, rugby. The kind they play in America. Except they wear those crash helmets, and stuntman padding, and knee-length trousers. And everything happens in fits and starts. No idea what he sees in the game.”
“It’s football, Mum. American football.”
“Pointless, dear, is what it is. At least in rugby they have scrums and you get to see those tight bums, hairy legs and chiselled faces—even if some do have broken noses and more than a few teeth missing.”
“Okay, so on that score, I am totally with you.”
Whenever the family watched a rugby game together, his father and brother would lower their faces into their hands and groan every time Spencer and his mother dissected the better-looking, put-together players, and especially when they started pointing out key physical ‘attributes’, including which one had the tightest arse or the player who was packing the most.
Spencer headed into the living room, to witness his brother sprawled lengthwise on the family couch, watching the flatscreen television.
“Ho-bro,” said Spencer, in greeting.
“Mo-bro,” replied Garrett, without taking his gaze from the sports programme.
Spencer left his weekend luggage by the door and went over and perched on the arm of the chair. After staring at the screen for a couple of seconds, he scrutinised his brother. Unusually for him, he wore decent jeans and what looked like a stylish long-sleeved Paul Smith fitted shirt in black and purple. As usual, his wild red hair had lost sight of its comb.
“Dad says you’ve got some new squeeze coming over.”
“Peony. She’s this hot babe from work I’ve been seeing since before August. Bringing her cousin, too. Friday night, so we’re going to eat here together, then ditch the wrinklies and head for Propaganda,” said Garrett before finally giving Spencer a once-over. “You’d better have brought something badder than what you’re wearing.”
“You want me to come?”
“It’s Friday night, Spence. And it’s a mixed club, so they’ll—you know—have some of your tribe there, too,” he said, by way of explanation.
“Why do you always rope me in? You know I’m too old for all that shit. I’d rather stay home and watch The Chase with Mum and Dad,” said Spencer, trying hard not to sound whingy. The Halloween party had taught him that he had long passed the age of endurance for hot, noisy and sweaty parties. Moreover, he knew Garrett would try to get him drunk.
“Tough. You’re coming.”
“We’ll see. I’m going to dump my bag. And then I need a shower,” said Spencer, jumping up but then stopping. “And why exactly do you need two motorcycles? I saw the new Triumph in the driveway.”
Garrett sat upright then, his eyes widening dramatically and his voice lowering, his full attention on Spencer.
“That’s not mine,” he said. “It’s Dad’s. Mum’s furious. Whatever you do, don’t mention it in front of her.”
“Is Dad okay in the head?”
“Of course he is. Just not used to sitting around doing nothing.”
Garrett had a point. Their father had spent most of his forty years working for the Metropolitan Police out in the field. On the rare occasion when he talked about his experiences, Spencer saw him get truly animated and learnt just how much of the grim side of society his father had witnessed.
“Maybe you should be taking him to Propaganda.”
“Go and get showered.”
Spencer had never gotten used to the bungalow, the fact that all the bedrooms led off from the main hallway. All of his time living at home with his parents in Merton Park, he had ‘gone up to bed’ using stairs, something this single-storey home didn’t have or need. Even in his Morden flat, he had to go up a flight of stairs to get to the open living room-cum-kitchen.
One of the modifications his father had made in the bungalow was to add a second bathroom—a shower room, to be more precise—and link the original bathroom exclusively to the master bedroom. That way his mother and father had all their own facilities on one side of the hallway when guests came to stay, something that had been lacking in their one-family-bathroom home back in London.
After taking his shower and dressing in a pair of comfortable denims, a white tee and a navy woollen jumper, he found the family at the dining table. An interesting young woman sat at the end of the table, facing him, as he entered. She wore a tight white V-neck sweater with her ample cleavage showing and the distinct beginnings of a tattoo on her left boob. With a nose stud and multiple ear piercings, she was definitely Garrett’s wild-child type.
Interestingly, to her right, there sat a guy around Spencer’s age with shaggy, boy-band blond hair and the rosy, flawless complexion of a twelve-year-old. More worryingly for Spencer, he had on a few layers of long-sleeved T-shirts to ward against the weather, but the bright yellow one he chose to wear on top had the words ‘Gay As F**k’ sitting inside a rainbow across the front.
“Come on, bromo. We’re all waiting to start eating,” said Garrett, opening up a tub of noodles. Across the tabletop sat around ten assorted containers of food. Their father always over-ordered.
“Shall we do paper plates and plastic cutlery?” said his mother, opening a cupboard in the kitchen. “Save on the washing up?”
“No,” said Spencer adamantly, heading to another cupboard and pulling out china plates. “Since when have we become the Gallaghers from Shameless? And what about saving the planet? Don’t worry, I’ll wash up, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It’s not that,” she said, hands on hips now. “I’ve got all these paper plates left over from the house-warming barbecue we had in the back garden two years ago, that only a couple of our neighbours bothered to attend. You don’t need to wash up, I can put the plates in the dishwasher easily enough, if that’s what you want.”
“I’ll help. Save the paper and plastic pollution for your next barbecue.”
Spencer threw down a handful of stainless steel cutlery then passed the plates around before plonking himself down next to his father, who sat checking through the invoice from the shop.
“As my brother is too rude to introduce me,” said Spencer, “I’m his younger brother, Spencer.”
“Garrett,” growled their father, without looking up from the receipt. “Manners.”
“And I’m Peony,” said the girl, after giggling silently as Garrett gave Spencer the middle finger. “And this is my cousin, Lyle.”
“Charmed,” said Lyle, with a pout and tiny royal wave from across the table. Spencer hoped the smile he returned seemed authentic. But if Garrett had been thinking the two of them might be compatible, he could not have been more mistaken. Lyle was painfully thin, pale skinned, and had a preciousness about him, one of the ne-me-touche-pas gays Spencer had met in the past, even in the way he stabbed at the plate then glared with disgust at the food on his fork, as though he found the prawns or noodles personally offensive and not worthy of his digestive system.
“Hope you don’t mind, Mum,” said Garrett, as everyone slowed to grazing at the end of the meal, “but I’m dragging Spencer out tonight. To Propaganda with me and Peony. Lyle’s planned to meet up with his boyfriend, and I thought you and Dad could have the house to yourselves.”
Spencer wondered if anyone heard the barely restrained sigh of relief issuing from him at hearing that Lyle already had a boyfriend.
“Poor Spencer’s only just got here,” said his mother, hands on hips, and Spencer almost agreed with her. “Give him a chance to relax.”
“You’ll have him all day tomorrow, Mum. Tonight he’s free, single and he’s ours.”
All too often he wished he no longer had the single label. He knew how tonight would end and how tomorrow would begin. Alone in bed, with still-ringing eardrums from the deafening music, thumping headache from too much alcohol, and his mother’s burnt breakfast to try to keep down.
“Is this nightclub far?” he asked, a sudden idea coming to him. There was one sure way to make sure he stayed sober.
“About fifteen to twenty minutes by cab. Why?”
“Dad, can I borrow the Volvo?”
“Of course you can.”
“Don’t you want to drink?” asked his brother.
“I’m on antihistamines. Can’t drink,” lied Spencer.
“You’ve got hay fever? In November? Who has hay fever in November?”
“They’re not just for hay fever, Gar,” said Peony, giving Spencer a sympathetic smile. “My sister has to take them because she’s allergic to animals.”
“He has a cat!” said Garrett, not buying the excuse one bit.
“Look, come on. I’ve already taken them, so I can’t drink. And it’s going to be problematic getting a cab on Friday night. Dad’s already warmed up the engine, so I’ll drive us there in the toasty warmth—because it’s pretty chilly out there right now, isn’t it, Dad?”
“Cold as a nun’s bum,” said my father, now reading a car magazine.
“See? That way, if you guys decide to go on until late, I’ll bring the car home and you can get a cab back.”
Spencer knew his brother well enough to know he intended to party hard. Usually they would arrive together, Garrett would buy beers and shots, then disappear into the crowd hunting and gathering—but probably not tonight with Peony by his side—and Spencer would eventually be left to find his own way home.
Sometimes, he thought, the simplest plans are the best.
Chapter Six
Spencer awoke disorientated Saturday morning, in a warm but preternaturally darkened bedroom that was not his own, to the growl of thunder and arbitrary lightning flashes behind thick heavy curtains. As he lay there, bleached light flooded the room followed by a flurry of raindrops pummelling his window. When he sat up and checked the phone, the time read eight-forty-five. He’d still had no response from Marshall to his text message on Friday. He wouldn’t send another, conscious of his new friend’s time and work pressures and, moreover, he didn’t want to come off as a phone stalker.
Dropping the device onto the duvet cover, he stretched out his arms and yawned. Most Saturday mornings he was woken by cat breath and a wet cat nose being pushed into his ear, and by the pizza shop owners downstairs moving around and getting ready for the weekend. Fortunately this morning he had met the new day without a hangover, thanks to his quick thinking the night before.
In the end, he had managed to ditch his brother and friends after only two hours. Lyle’s boyfriend, Tate, had been insanely good-looking. Tall, muscular, great hair, deep sexy voice—a solid ten in Spencer’s hotness rating scale. And yet Lyle had treated him with disdain, looking bored and pushing away from any affection, allowing only the occasional peck on the cheek and only enduring a protective arm around the shoulders. Forty-five minutes in and Spencer had wanted to slap Lyle. Or Tate. Or both of them. Peony must have sensed his annoyance, because she had sidled up to him while Garrett had gone for more drinks.
“So what do you make of the sugar babes?”
“Sugar babes?”
“Tate and Lyle.”
Spencer had choked on his lime soda. He hadn’t made the connection between their names and the sugar company.
“Which the landlord wants back next Feb,” said Spencer, letting out a tired sigh.
“Seriously?” said his father, turning briefly to check him. “Maybe it’s time to think about buying, son. You know your mother and I are more than happy to stump up a deposit.”
Spencer’s parents constantly fretted about him living in London, and had offered the deposit for him to buy somewhere a number of times. The problem was that Spencer wanted to feel more settled before he made that kind of commitment.
“I know, Dad. And that’s really kind of you both. But I still haven’t decided what I’m doing with my life.”
Once again a comfortable calm descended.
“And on the subject of my sons’ dating lives, how about you?” said his father. “Any new fellow on the horizon? Would be nice to hear that at least one of my sons is settling down.”
When Spencer had come out at eighteen, his parents had been totally cool about having a gay son, especially as their oldest appeared to be on a mission to inseminate the whole fertile female population of Southern England. Even so, Spencer cringed whenever his father asked if he had a boyfriend. For a brief moment he wondered whether to mention Blake getting engaged—they knew about him and Blake, even though they’d never met him—but then decided to keep the news to himself.
“Not much going on out there right now, Dad.”
“Not even on that phone app? Grumblr, isn’t it?”
Spencer couldn’t help sniggering.
“Grindr. Not my style.”
“Really? I thought all the gay boys hooked up through those online dating apps these days. Your brother used to have a waiting list courtesy of his straight one, Tinkler.”
“Tinder!” said Spencer, horrified at the thought of an app by the name his father supplied.
“That’s the one.”
Sometimes he wondered if his father made the verbal faux pas deliberately. But his brother’s Tinder adventures had been the talk of the family. In fact, Spencer had told Bev that if his brother had not been among one of the first twenty members clambering to sign up to the launch of the dating app, he would be shocked stupid. His father had once likened Garrett’s carefully orchestrated dating life to the precision of a traffic police officer at a busy intersection when the traffic lights had failed, sometimes with two or three dates lined up back-to-back in a single evening.
“My brother is a gigolo. End of subject. How are you and Mum doing? Made any new friends down here yet?”
Long before he had taken early retirement from the police force, Spencer’s father had made clear his dream for them to retire to Bournemouth. And six months after his last day, they had sold the Merton Park home Spencer and his brother had known since childhood and moved to a bungalow on the south coast. But, as with all things in life, the fantasy had not lived up to the reality, and, five years later, they had made very few new friends.
“Not really. We joined the Bournemouth Conservative Club briefly. Your mother found them all a bit uppity. Not really our sort of people. But your Aunt Kathleen’s only down the road in Southampton and our old neighbours, Bill and Mandy Sampson, came down to stay for a week. So we’re never short of company.”
His father had spent the first couple of years working on the bungalow, gutting the interior and getting the overgrown garden up to snuff, so he had been happily occupied. Now, with only the exterior paintwork needing some serious reconsideration, he had more time on his hands. But whereas the Wyrrells of Merton Park had tended to be social magnets with their neighbours—largely because the family home had belonged to Spencer’s grandfather and great grandfather—the retirees of their Bournemouth neighbourhood tended to keep themselves to themselves.
Finally the Volvo slowed in front of their bungalow. In the daylight, with its powder-pink walls, hot-pink front door, white-painted trimmings and white window boxes, the single-storey, three-bedroom abode looked like a doll’s house. All of the men in the family detested the colour scheme, but apparently a woman’s opinion trumped them all. Only Garrett’s motorcycles lent the property a semblance of masculinity. He had acquired another since Spencer had last been home, a new black Triumph standing next to his sleek scarlet Ducati Monster 1200S, both lit up by the home security lighting and parked in the driveway.
“Go say hello to your mother. I’m going to pick up the nosh.”
“Don’t they deliver?”
“They do, but I want to give the old girl a longer run in this cold weather, while I’ve got her warm. There’s your mother now.”
Spencer grinned at seeing a warm light and a familiar silhouette fill the front door. While his father kept the engine running, Spencer got out and grabbed his bag from the back seat. As usual, his mum waited to give him a hug. She was a congenital hugger, and always had been, even when he’d brought friends home from school. Tonight she had on grey tracksuit bottoms and a pale lemon crew neck sweater, which showcased her red curly hair. While his father could happily project manage all the structural changes to their new home including digging up the garden, Coleen Wyrrell provided the interior design and the pretty flowerbed arrangements. Which was why the interior of their home would not look out of place in a home design magazine or on a lifestyle television show. Figuring he’d better get the greeting out of the way, he walked into her waiting arms and had the life squeezed out of him.
“How are you, darling?”
Where Garrett had inherited their father’s flinty-coloured irises and mother’s tightly curled, ginger hair, Spencer had lucked out with his father’s thick brown locks and his mother’s sea green eyes.
“Grmph. Mmm’okay.”
“Where’s your father?” she asked, letting him breathe again and peering over his shoulder.
“What? The Karl Lagerfeld wannabe, you mean?” he said, causing his mother to snicker and slap him gently on the shoulder. “I bet that look went down like a string vest and a knotted hanky hat at the Conservative Club.”
“Oh, honestly, darling. Those people. You’d think they were descended from royalty, the way they looked at us over their true blue surgical masks. Have you eaten? You’re looking a little malnourished.”
“Had a quick sandwich on the train, but not really anything much since lunch. Dad’s giving the car a bit of a run and gone to pick up the takeaway.”
“I was going to do one of my lovely casseroles, but Garrett insisted on Chinese.”
Thank you, Garrett, thought Spencer. He remembered the last casserole his mother had conjured containing beef chunks, barley wine—she’d run out of red wine—prunes with the stones still in, mostly shelled walnuts and the plastic top of a spice jar of dried chillies which had somehow found its way into the pot.
“Is he here?”
“Watching American rugby. Go on through.”
After he had stepped past her, he stopped and turned.
“American what?”
“You know, rugby. The kind they play in America. Except they wear those crash helmets, and stuntman padding, and knee-length trousers. And everything happens in fits and starts. No idea what he sees in the game.”
“It’s football, Mum. American football.”
“Pointless, dear, is what it is. At least in rugby they have scrums and you get to see those tight bums, hairy legs and chiselled faces—even if some do have broken noses and more than a few teeth missing.”
“Okay, so on that score, I am totally with you.”
Whenever the family watched a rugby game together, his father and brother would lower their faces into their hands and groan every time Spencer and his mother dissected the better-looking, put-together players, and especially when they started pointing out key physical ‘attributes’, including which one had the tightest arse or the player who was packing the most.
Spencer headed into the living room, to witness his brother sprawled lengthwise on the family couch, watching the flatscreen television.
“Ho-bro,” said Spencer, in greeting.
“Mo-bro,” replied Garrett, without taking his gaze from the sports programme.
Spencer left his weekend luggage by the door and went over and perched on the arm of the chair. After staring at the screen for a couple of seconds, he scrutinised his brother. Unusually for him, he wore decent jeans and what looked like a stylish long-sleeved Paul Smith fitted shirt in black and purple. As usual, his wild red hair had lost sight of its comb.
“Dad says you’ve got some new squeeze coming over.”
“Peony. She’s this hot babe from work I’ve been seeing since before August. Bringing her cousin, too. Friday night, so we’re going to eat here together, then ditch the wrinklies and head for Propaganda,” said Garrett before finally giving Spencer a once-over. “You’d better have brought something badder than what you’re wearing.”
“You want me to come?”
“It’s Friday night, Spence. And it’s a mixed club, so they’ll—you know—have some of your tribe there, too,” he said, by way of explanation.
“Why do you always rope me in? You know I’m too old for all that shit. I’d rather stay home and watch The Chase with Mum and Dad,” said Spencer, trying hard not to sound whingy. The Halloween party had taught him that he had long passed the age of endurance for hot, noisy and sweaty parties. Moreover, he knew Garrett would try to get him drunk.
“Tough. You’re coming.”
“We’ll see. I’m going to dump my bag. And then I need a shower,” said Spencer, jumping up but then stopping. “And why exactly do you need two motorcycles? I saw the new Triumph in the driveway.”
Garrett sat upright then, his eyes widening dramatically and his voice lowering, his full attention on Spencer.
“That’s not mine,” he said. “It’s Dad’s. Mum’s furious. Whatever you do, don’t mention it in front of her.”
“Is Dad okay in the head?”
“Of course he is. Just not used to sitting around doing nothing.”
Garrett had a point. Their father had spent most of his forty years working for the Metropolitan Police out in the field. On the rare occasion when he talked about his experiences, Spencer saw him get truly animated and learnt just how much of the grim side of society his father had witnessed.
“Maybe you should be taking him to Propaganda.”
“Go and get showered.”
Spencer had never gotten used to the bungalow, the fact that all the bedrooms led off from the main hallway. All of his time living at home with his parents in Merton Park, he had ‘gone up to bed’ using stairs, something this single-storey home didn’t have or need. Even in his Morden flat, he had to go up a flight of stairs to get to the open living room-cum-kitchen.
One of the modifications his father had made in the bungalow was to add a second bathroom—a shower room, to be more precise—and link the original bathroom exclusively to the master bedroom. That way his mother and father had all their own facilities on one side of the hallway when guests came to stay, something that had been lacking in their one-family-bathroom home back in London.
After taking his shower and dressing in a pair of comfortable denims, a white tee and a navy woollen jumper, he found the family at the dining table. An interesting young woman sat at the end of the table, facing him, as he entered. She wore a tight white V-neck sweater with her ample cleavage showing and the distinct beginnings of a tattoo on her left boob. With a nose stud and multiple ear piercings, she was definitely Garrett’s wild-child type.
Interestingly, to her right, there sat a guy around Spencer’s age with shaggy, boy-band blond hair and the rosy, flawless complexion of a twelve-year-old. More worryingly for Spencer, he had on a few layers of long-sleeved T-shirts to ward against the weather, but the bright yellow one he chose to wear on top had the words ‘Gay As F**k’ sitting inside a rainbow across the front.
“Come on, bromo. We’re all waiting to start eating,” said Garrett, opening up a tub of noodles. Across the tabletop sat around ten assorted containers of food. Their father always over-ordered.
“Shall we do paper plates and plastic cutlery?” said his mother, opening a cupboard in the kitchen. “Save on the washing up?”
“No,” said Spencer adamantly, heading to another cupboard and pulling out china plates. “Since when have we become the Gallaghers from Shameless? And what about saving the planet? Don’t worry, I’ll wash up, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It’s not that,” she said, hands on hips now. “I’ve got all these paper plates left over from the house-warming barbecue we had in the back garden two years ago, that only a couple of our neighbours bothered to attend. You don’t need to wash up, I can put the plates in the dishwasher easily enough, if that’s what you want.”
“I’ll help. Save the paper and plastic pollution for your next barbecue.”
Spencer threw down a handful of stainless steel cutlery then passed the plates around before plonking himself down next to his father, who sat checking through the invoice from the shop.
“As my brother is too rude to introduce me,” said Spencer, “I’m his younger brother, Spencer.”
“Garrett,” growled their father, without looking up from the receipt. “Manners.”
“And I’m Peony,” said the girl, after giggling silently as Garrett gave Spencer the middle finger. “And this is my cousin, Lyle.”
“Charmed,” said Lyle, with a pout and tiny royal wave from across the table. Spencer hoped the smile he returned seemed authentic. But if Garrett had been thinking the two of them might be compatible, he could not have been more mistaken. Lyle was painfully thin, pale skinned, and had a preciousness about him, one of the ne-me-touche-pas gays Spencer had met in the past, even in the way he stabbed at the plate then glared with disgust at the food on his fork, as though he found the prawns or noodles personally offensive and not worthy of his digestive system.
“Hope you don’t mind, Mum,” said Garrett, as everyone slowed to grazing at the end of the meal, “but I’m dragging Spencer out tonight. To Propaganda with me and Peony. Lyle’s planned to meet up with his boyfriend, and I thought you and Dad could have the house to yourselves.”
Spencer wondered if anyone heard the barely restrained sigh of relief issuing from him at hearing that Lyle already had a boyfriend.
“Poor Spencer’s only just got here,” said his mother, hands on hips, and Spencer almost agreed with her. “Give him a chance to relax.”
“You’ll have him all day tomorrow, Mum. Tonight he’s free, single and he’s ours.”
All too often he wished he no longer had the single label. He knew how tonight would end and how tomorrow would begin. Alone in bed, with still-ringing eardrums from the deafening music, thumping headache from too much alcohol, and his mother’s burnt breakfast to try to keep down.
“Is this nightclub far?” he asked, a sudden idea coming to him. There was one sure way to make sure he stayed sober.
“About fifteen to twenty minutes by cab. Why?”
“Dad, can I borrow the Volvo?”
“Of course you can.”
“Don’t you want to drink?” asked his brother.
“I’m on antihistamines. Can’t drink,” lied Spencer.
“You’ve got hay fever? In November? Who has hay fever in November?”
“They’re not just for hay fever, Gar,” said Peony, giving Spencer a sympathetic smile. “My sister has to take them because she’s allergic to animals.”
“He has a cat!” said Garrett, not buying the excuse one bit.
“Look, come on. I’ve already taken them, so I can’t drink. And it’s going to be problematic getting a cab on Friday night. Dad’s already warmed up the engine, so I’ll drive us there in the toasty warmth—because it’s pretty chilly out there right now, isn’t it, Dad?”
“Cold as a nun’s bum,” said my father, now reading a car magazine.
“See? That way, if you guys decide to go on until late, I’ll bring the car home and you can get a cab back.”
Spencer knew his brother well enough to know he intended to party hard. Usually they would arrive together, Garrett would buy beers and shots, then disappear into the crowd hunting and gathering—but probably not tonight with Peony by his side—and Spencer would eventually be left to find his own way home.
Sometimes, he thought, the simplest plans are the best.
Chapter Six
Spencer awoke disorientated Saturday morning, in a warm but preternaturally darkened bedroom that was not his own, to the growl of thunder and arbitrary lightning flashes behind thick heavy curtains. As he lay there, bleached light flooded the room followed by a flurry of raindrops pummelling his window. When he sat up and checked the phone, the time read eight-forty-five. He’d still had no response from Marshall to his text message on Friday. He wouldn’t send another, conscious of his new friend’s time and work pressures and, moreover, he didn’t want to come off as a phone stalker.
Dropping the device onto the duvet cover, he stretched out his arms and yawned. Most Saturday mornings he was woken by cat breath and a wet cat nose being pushed into his ear, and by the pizza shop owners downstairs moving around and getting ready for the weekend. Fortunately this morning he had met the new day without a hangover, thanks to his quick thinking the night before.
In the end, he had managed to ditch his brother and friends after only two hours. Lyle’s boyfriend, Tate, had been insanely good-looking. Tall, muscular, great hair, deep sexy voice—a solid ten in Spencer’s hotness rating scale. And yet Lyle had treated him with disdain, looking bored and pushing away from any affection, allowing only the occasional peck on the cheek and only enduring a protective arm around the shoulders. Forty-five minutes in and Spencer had wanted to slap Lyle. Or Tate. Or both of them. Peony must have sensed his annoyance, because she had sidled up to him while Garrett had gone for more drinks.
“So what do you make of the sugar babes?”
“Sugar babes?”
“Tate and Lyle.”
Spencer had choked on his lime soda. He hadn’t made the connection between their names and the sugar company.
