Merry Measure, page 5
Arlo had grabbed my hand, leaning in and talking animatedly, and in that moment, everything changed. I remember so clearly looking at his pale face, his grey eyes bleary but determined, and thinking how beautiful they were. Then I’d looked at the rest of him—the slender body clad in old jeans and an atrocious Christmas jumper, his red-brown hair waving around his face. A charge had run through me like I’d stuck my finger into an electrical socket.
I remember thinking, Oh my God, he’s so gorgeous. I wanted to touch his hair to test its softness and kiss those full lips. I wanted to do everything.
I’d stared dumbly at him, trying frantically to bring myself back to sanity. But then he’d had another cup of eggnog and passed out at the table. By the time I’d roused him and shoved him into bed where I wouldn’t be able to see him anymore, I’d managed to think sensibly.
Arlo was my best friend’s little brother, I’d told myself. Tom would fucking kill me if I went there, and how did I know Arlo would reciprocate my attraction, anyway. I knew he’d had a crush on me at one point and the knowledge had been like a sweet whisper that I’d tucked away, but I was pretty sure he’d got over that years ago.
Even if he did return my interest, I was sure that I’d end up driving him away, the way I had everyone else with my obsession with details and tidiness and planning. I stood outside his bedroom door that night and made myself imagine his inevitable rejection in great detail. We’d argue. His family would take his side, and I would lose everything—the warmth and joy his family had always given me, along with their home, which had, in important ways, become my sanctuary, its rambling chaos so different from the ordered pristineness of my parents’ house. Then I imagined something even worse than that—Arlo no longer looking at me with delight every time we met, and instead turning away.
By the time I went downstairs, I’d convinced myself it was a moment of madness and nothing more. I’d relaxed and enjoyed the rest of the holiday with my adopted family. Unfortunately, I’d been far too complacent, because it turned out that I’d opened a box that day that couldn’t be closed again, and to my horror I couldn’t repack my awareness of him.
Now I keep hoping that I’ll go back to seeing him as a de facto little brother. Unfortunately, it hasn’t happened, and the want has grown. Not just desire, but a yearning for his company.
I arranged to fly to Amsterdam with him deliberately. I knew I’d have to see my parents to explain the split with Steven, but I promised myself a morning alone with Arlo as my prize for getting through it.
And when he ran up to me in the airport—cheeks cherry-red, hair a mess—I’d felt the now familiar sweet thrill run through me. When he slept on my shoulder in the plane, I let him. With anyone else, I’d have put them gently back in their seat, but I let him stay, his body a warm weight against mine and the scent of his shampoo in my nose. I hadn’t even minded the patch of drool on my jumper, because it was Arlo’s drool.
I groan quietly and scrub my hands down my face. Get it together, Jack, I chastise myself.
I look at him again and fix the lovely picture in my head, and then I very deliberately turn over and away from the tempting sight of him.
Arlo
I come awake slowly. I’m lying in a patch of sunshine which is warm on my face, and the duvet is wrapped around me, forming a snug little cave. For a few seconds, I think I’m late for work, and then I realise that I’m on holiday and don’t have to see any demonic and spoilt children for at least three weeks. I hum happily and hear a husky chuckle from my right. My eyes fly open, and I find Jack watching me from his bed.
He’s lying with his iPad propped on his chest, his hair is a dark mess against his blue pillow. He has glasses on, and the black frames make him look incredibly hot, whereas mine just give the impression that I’m five and should be queuing to go into a Disney film.
His stubble is as sexy as any pirate on a romance book cover, and I have a front-row seat to gawp at his bare chest. He’s got a lot more hair now than he did last time I saw him shirtless. It’s dark and looks like it would be soft on my face if I rubbed against it and—
Jack clears his throat, and I abruptly remember that he’s not porn on my iPad, but my brother’s best friend. I quickly pretend to yawn to cover up the leering, which turns into a real one involving showing him a lot of my tongue and teeth before I remember my manners and put my hand over my mouth.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
He chuckles. “For what? You slept well.”
“That’ll be the wine,” I say. “I didn’t think I’d drunk that much, but I was obviously being drunkenly optimistic.”
“Well, you didn’t drink heavily if you compare yourself to Mel Gibson. A vat is nothing these days.”
I laugh and groan as pain slices through my eyeballs. “Shit.” I press my fingers against my eyes. “I need some paracetamol.”
“I’ll get you some,” he says.
I force my eyes open in time to see him throw the sheets back and get out of bed. For a wild second, I think he’s naked, but then the sheet clears his middle, and I see he’s actually wearing blue-checked pyjama shorts that are hanging low on his hips. In the bathroom, he rummages through his shaving bag, and I can’t help but eye the view. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, and lots of lean muscle that reflects how much he loves running.
He paces back to me, carrying a bottle of water and two tablets. I take the tablets, gulp the water, and watch as he strides to the tea tray and switches the kettle on.
“I’ll make some coffee,” he says over his shoulder.
“Why can’t I always share a room with you?” I say plaintively. “You’re so much nicer than Tom. I was always stuck with him when I was a kid.”
“Well, it’s a fact that I don’t snore like Tom.”
“Jesus Christ,” I say with feeling, propping myself against the pillows. “I’ve never heard anything at that decibel unless it was a jumbo jet. I’m fucked if I can work out why Bee doesn’t stab him in his sleep.”
He chuckles. “It is bad. I spent a year rooming with him at uni, and at the end I must have looked like Beetlejuice.”
I laugh and reach out eagerly for the mug he hands me. I inhale the fragrant steam and look at him. “This smells good and not at all like normal hotel coffee.”
He shrugs. “This place has a cafetiere.”
“Not at all like the youth hostel, which is the last place where Tom and I shared a room. It’s also the place I hitchhiked home from rather than listen to him snore anymore.”
He laughs. “You all argue like cats and dogs. I never could understand it because we didn’t do that at my house.”
“No need when your parents can kill someone with the force of their glare,” I mutter.
He shakes his head and carries his drink over to his bed. The mug has a string and a little label hanging from it, so I’m pretty sure his drink is so powerfully healthy that it’s detoxing him through the china.
He settles back into bed. “You feeling better?”
I try a cautious shake of my head. “A bit,” I say judiciously. “Nothing that a nice greasy fry-up won’t cure. I’ll shower and get dressed in a minute and then we can go down to breakfast.”
“You sure you’re up to it?” he asks, eyeing me dubiously.
“Of course,” I say robustly. “Tom’s paid for this, and it’s probably cost more money than the European Union’s tea budget, so we’re going down there and eating every expensive morsel.”
He looks a little unsure but doesn’t say anything, sitting back against his pillows and sipping his tea. It’s lovely and so domestic being with him like this, and I wish it were real. I dismiss that stupid idea immediately.
“You don’t look at all hungover,” I observe. “Why on earth not?”
He grins, his teeth flashing white against his stubble. “Because I, unlike the Wright clan, stopped when I’d had enough.”
“What is that alien concept?” I say, enjoying the way laughter relaxes him and makes his face glow. He’s always wound so tightly. “You need to get with the plan,” I observe, sipping my coffee. “Freddy’s hoping for a piss up today.”
“I can never understand his obsession with viewing Europe via its bars.”
I laugh, my headache easing its stranglehold on my temples. “Apparently we’re doing culture tomorrow. They couldn’t get tickets for any of the museums today, and Freddy decreed that a spare day must be filled by a pub crawl.”
“He’s like a drunk version of Brendan from Coach Trip.”
“Well, I’m very happy that I drank heavily last night,” I observe. “It at least will drown out the memory of Tom trying to propose to Bee and failing miserably.”
He winces and then laughs. “I still can’t believe he bottled it. He had the ring in his hand. It was there, ready and waiting. He just had to say the words and give it to him.”
“Well, unfortunately, thanks to Tom’s shaky hand, the ring was instead baptised by alcohol. But at least now we know for certain it’s platinum. Dropping it in a vodka shot would have stripped another metal.”
He snorts, and we look at each other only to burst into laughter. “Oh my God,” I finally say, rubbing tears from my eyes. “That was classic. Bee now thinks that Tom has become very penny-pinching, because his excuse for sticking his hand in Bee’s vodka was that he’d dropped a euro in the glass.”
He laughs harder, setting me off again.
Finally, we sober. “It was truly epic,” I say happily. “I like watching Tom flounder.”
“I can’t understand him. I think he’s wound himself up into a state of hysteria, because he believes it’s got to be perfect for Bee.”
“There’s no such thing as perfect,” I say, stretching. I glance over to find him staring at me. “What?”
“Do you really think that?”
I shrug. “Of course. People who expect perfection in relationships are doomed to disappointment. Anyway, it’s the imperfections that make the best stories. In years to come, Bee and Tom won’t remember the cinematic moment when Tom asked Bee to marry him. They’ll remember that he dropped the ring in Bee’s vodka and nearly lost it.” I smile at him. “It’ll become just another Wright family dinner-party story. I know all about those, because my boyfriends have largely become apocryphal at this point.”
He laughs and then sobers. “I like that way of thinking,” he says musingly.
“How would you do it, anyway?” I ask, suddenly filled with the desire to know.
“What?” he asks. “Propose marriage?” I nod, and he looks thoughtful. “I wouldn’t do it in public. To me, it’s one of the most intensely private things you can do.” He shrugs. “I think I’d wait until we were curled up at home all snug and warm and it would come from one of those moments when I’d have a sudden realisation of how much I love the other person and want to spend my life with them. Then I’d say, ‘I have a question for you.’”
He trails off awkwardly, and silence falls. I have a sudden, incredibly powerful yearning for it to be me on the other end of Jack’s dream proposal. I squash that thought like it’s an irritating bug. Jack’s dreams will never include me. When he proposes, it will be to someone who looks like they belong on an advertising billboard. Probably for aftershave. They always look like smug bastards.
“That’s lovely,” I say in a low voice. “Really lovely.”
He flushes, and, to rescue both of us, I hastily suggest, “Let’s go to breakfast.”
Half an hour later, dressed in skinny jeans, combat boots, and an oversized black jumper, I follow him into the restaurant. As usual, we’re comfortable together again, the awkwardness easily left behind.
I look around in appreciation at the series of wood-panelled rooms. Huge sash windows let in the winter sunshine, illuminating the beautiful artwork on the walls and the bright blue and purple velvet chairs that surround wide, wooden dining tables. The effect is tasteful and comfortable. Against the wall opposite us, there’s a series of refectory tables filled with food of every description. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of coffee and bacon and fresh toast.
Rubbing my hands together, I grin at Jack. “See you in a bit,” I say cheerfully.
Five minutes later, I settle opposite him with a plate that’s piled high with food, including two croissants, toast and jam, and thick slices of ham.
He grins at me. “Surely you’re eating more than that, Arlo. You’ll waste away.”
“I’m a growing boy, and we need to eat every scrap to justify the extortionate prices here.” I unroll my cutlery and settle the heavy napkin over my lap. “Anyway, this is just a preliminary snack. I want eggs benedict afterwards.”
“Are you a hobbit?” he asks seriously.
I laugh. “I can’t even grow hair on my chest, Jack. Let alone on my feet.”
“I ordered coffee for you,” he says, digging into his own more modest breakfast of cold meats and cheese.
“Is that all you’re eating?” I ask disapprovingly.
“Yes, because we can’t all consume meals that look fit for Henry the Eighth.” He smiles. “I don’t know where you put it.”
“My cock,” I say. Unfortunately, my voice is a bit too loud, and the comment lands in the sudden pocket of silence around us like a brick in a puddle.
An old couple at a nearby table turn their heads slowly to look at me.
“Oh,” I say, trying to think quickly. “Oh dear… My clock! My clock isn’t working this morning.”
The old couple relax slightly and turn back to their meal, and when I look at Jack, it’s to find him red-faced and fighting obvious laughter.
“Hush,” I say primly. “This is a nice hotel, Jack. Have some decorum.” A snort escapes him, and I tap my fork on my plate. “We need to line our stomachs for this pub crawl. Otherwise, I’ll be left on the pavement again. A testament to lost dreams and poor alcohol tolerance.”
“Happy holidays,” he says wryly.
I smile, and then, at the sound of nearby laughter, we look up to see our friends coming towards us. I eye them consideringly, and, damn them, they don’t look hungover. Then I see Bee’s glowing face.
“You’ll never guess what,” he says excitedly as he arrives at our table.
“Oh my God,” I shout, getting to my feet and hugging him tightly. “I’m so happy. Congratulations!”
Too late, I see my brother making wild gestures at me.
Bee looks at me in confusion. “Wow! Did you hear already?” he says. I blink, and Bee looks over at Jack. “I ended up scoring some tickets for the Rembrandt exhibition but didn’t think anyone else apart from us was going to be that happy about attending.” He turns back to me. “This is brilliant, Arlo. Tom can go on his pub crawl with Freddy and Diana, and you can have your brother’s ticket if you’d like and come with Jack and me. I never knew you were such a Rembrandt fan.”
“I am?” I ask, and then it sinks in what’s just happened. Bee’s talking about going to a museum, not about getting married. “Oh yes,” I say heartily. “So much a fan. Huge. Ginormous. Wow! A ticket to the Rembrandt art exhibition rather than the pub. Great.”
“Really?” he enthuses. “What’s your favourite work of his?”
I remember with a sinking heart that art history is amongst the many topics Bee is brainy about.
“Oh, er…” I falter, looking desperately at my friends. Nobody catches my silent plea, apart from Jack, who, behind Bee’s back, makes a sudden charade-like gesture. I stare at him closely. He gestures again. “Oh,” I say loudly and excitedly. “The disembowelment one. I love that. So… so visceral and… and so real.” I trail off as Jack lowers his head to the table and bangs it gently.
“Really?” Bee asks, looking puzzled. “I don’t remember that one.”
“Oh yes,” I say faintly. “It was painted during his depressed period.”
Jack’s laugh breaks free, obviously too forceful for him to contain.
Five
Arlo
Jack is still laughing as we wait outside the hotel for Bee and the others.
I shoot him a sour look. “Oh, shut up.”
He snorts again, making my mouth tick upwards despite my attempt to look stern. I shrug. “Well, there’s one silver lining in the typhoon cloud anyway.” He looks at me in query, and I say, “Bee’s well used to our family being odd. This was nothing on the Wright family strange-behaviour measurement.”
“No. It’s nowhere near the time when your dad inadvertently entered that road race in the South of France,” he says solemnly. “Thirty minutes of French people shouting at us was just a wonderful holiday memory.”
I laugh and shake my head. “My fucking family.” A cold wind gusts around me, and I shiver, pulling my parka closer. “Shit, it’s cold. Where the hell are they?”
He unwinds his long, red and black striped cashmere scarf from his neck. “Here, have this.”
“I can’t have that,” I say, startled. “That’s your scarf, and you’ll need it because it’s bloody freezing.”
He shrugs. “I’m not as cold-blooded as you. I swear you’ve got crocodile blood in you.”
“Did you know that crocodiles release heat through their mouths rather than sweat glands?”
He pauses in looping the huge scarf around my neck, and I inhale and get a gust of his woody scent. “Really? How do you know that?”
“Year Two project by Daisy Barrett. What she didn’t know about crocodiles wasn’t worth knowing,” I say gloomily.
He laughs, and I become aware of how close we’re standing. I can feel the warmth of his body and smell his sweet, minty breath. I draw in a sharp breath. His fingers go still where they’re tying the scarf, and our gazes catch and hold. The world drops away, leaving just us.
