2cool2btrue (30 page)

“Ow, shit. Please. Stop it.” He crawls away from my foot. “It’s not what you think, it’s not—”

“What the fuck is it, then?” I sniff back tears and look across at Lauren.

Except that it’s not Lauren.

I
t’s a lithe, tanned body and there’s blond hair but it’s not Lauren. The legs are a bit more sinuous and a lot hairier than Lauren’s. My mind is reeling and I’m not sure I’d recognise my own mother at the moment. But I do realise pretty quickly that this is a bloke. I look a bit harder and see his dick, nestling in its light brown pubic hair by the edge of the duvet. I look further up and there’s the face of a young guy with a nose stud regarding me with a mixture of terror and shock.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, sliding out of the far side of the bed and protecting his groin with the edge of the duvet.

Dumbstruck, I look down at Peter who has by now edged over to the dressing table and is curled up half underneath it.

“I told you,” he says, still terror stricken.

“What’s going on?” I say a little unnecessarily. “Where’s Lauren?”

“She’s gone away with Sarah. To France. They’re staying with Sarah’s parents. She said the flat would be empty and I could borrow it. I’ve got friends from the States staying at mine. Scott has a roommate so we…”

“Scott?” I mutter, moronically. Peter nods in the young, blond guy’s direction again. We stand there like a tableau for what seems like ages. I feel slightly faint. Perhaps I’m just dreaming this, hallucinating, even. I slump down on the bed and sense both men shrink back further. I take a deep breath, put my head in my hands and find my arguments with Lauren during the past few weeks repeating themselves. My stupid, sneering comments. You goofball. You stupid, stupid bastard. Oh, God, Lauren, I’m so sorry, I just thought…what a fucking idiot. Peter’s sexuality was probably obvious if only I hadn’t been so paranoid and suspicious. Finally I look across at Peter and say to him:

“You’re gay?”

Peter appears baffled, as if to say: look, I know you’re blond and a model but…

“Oh, my God.” I let it sink in for a moment. Lauren is not sleeping with Peter. Scott is sleeping with Peter. I feel a sudden wave of relief. And then guilt. Charlie is sleeping with Nora. Oh, God, poor Lauren, I was wrong, so totally fucking wrong.

“You’ve never slept with Lauren?”

“With Lauren? Well, no. Not at all, I don’t really…”

“No, sure,” I say, running my hands through my hair, trying to come to terms with this new situation.

“And Lauren doesn’t fancy you? No, ’course not.” It’s only afterwards that I remember Peter looking a little bit hurt at my instant supposition.

We all three stand in silence for a bit longer. Two naked, terrified gay guys, one clothed, embarrassed but relieved straight guy.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry Peter. Are you all right?” I look up at his hair and then down further at his plump, mottled flesh to where I kicked him. He smoothes his hair slightly, fingering his scalp. He checks for blood as I discretely rub away any remaining hairs from my fingers. Then he puts a hand on his back and stretches gently, assessing the pain.

“Yes, I think so,” he says. “Shall we, er?”

“Oh, sorry, carry on,” I say. “I mean if you feel like it.”

Neither of them look like they’re exactly panting with lust at the moment.

“I meant get dressed,” says Peter.

“I’d better get going,” says Scott in an American accent. He locates his underpants on the floor and begins to put them on without taking his eyes off me—probably concerned that I might flip again and turn on him. “I have school,” he explains, smiling nervously.

“Would you like some coffee?” I ask them. “I’m going to make some.”

“Um, well I’d better be getting going too,” says Peter.

“Oh, stay, have a cup of coffee,” I tell them, feeling guilty about the assault and wanting to talk to someone, more importantly, to hear more about Peter and Lauren’s platonic relationship and I suppose just to make absolutely sure it is platonic.

“Um,” says Peter, looking across at Scott. They obviously decide to humour me—no sudden movements, now.

“Have a shower and coffee will be up in a minute,” I say, making my way towards the kitchen.

Peter. Gay. It was so obvious. I just thought that any man who came within feet of my beautiful girlfriend would want to jump into bed with her. How can I ever apologise to her though? Poor Lauren, I’m so sorry. I stop in my tracks as I think of her. She’s done nothing wrong, other than spend a bit too much time with Peter. When I think of all my stupid, sneering comments. And I was wrong all the time. Fucking idiot. She’s innocent of all charges.

And then there’s Nora. Oh, God. I used Nora to get at Lauren for something Lauren hasn’t done. Poor Nora. I think of that first night after we made love, wandering around naked—demure, self-concious.

What? What am I talking about? She’s deceived me time after time. Articles she’s written. Her connection with Piers. Why should I feel sorry for her?

But then I think of her talking about her father. Those tears, that haunted look as she gazed into the middle distance, telling me about that night she was born. Perhaps I have finally penetrated her, really got inside her and seen what she doesn’t show the rest of the world when she’s being Nora Benthall journalist. Or just being Nora Benthall.

I make some coffee and a few rounds of toast into the bargain. I’m just putting it out on the breakfast unit when the others come in, looking slightly anxious, slightly sheepish.

“So, did you have a good…” I ask, realizing that I’m not quite sure what the end of this jolly bit of small talk will be. Luckily I manage to think of “shower?” just in time.

“Yes, thanks” they mutter in unison. I get the feeling they’re doing this just to keep me sweet—and stable—as if they’re taking part in a seige and that if they decline my hospitality or offend me in any way I’ll go for them again, but I’m in such a good mood I don’t really care what they think.

Scott who is dressed in a sleeveless, red Abercrombie & Fitch sweatshirt and very baggy, ripped jeans is a film student it turns out. He takes his coffee black and looks at Peter a lot for guidance—and protection, presumably.

“Why didn’t she tell me? That you were gay, I mean?” I ask, spreading a piece of toast liberally with Lauren’s mother’s homemade marmalade.

“Well, I didn’t tell her until recently and by that time you and her weren’t talking to each other really, anyway. I only mentioned it at all because we bumped into an old lover of mine in a bar,” he says, cutting a piece of toast corner to corner. “I did suggest she tell you because I sort of got the impression you thought that there was something going on between us but she said why should she? It was your problem and…well, she was really angry with you by that stage. You know what Lauren’s like.”

I smile at the thought of Lauren standing on principle, not wanting to be pushed into saying or doing something she didn’t feel she had to.

“So she’s gone to France, then?”

“Yes, with Sarah and some other friends. Guy called Michael, do you know him? It was a last-minute thing. They’ll be back tomorrow.”

We both stop for a moment as we realise what this means. For all my confidence and determination, I’m not sure where I’m even going to begin to apologise adequately and to see how we can rebuild our life together. On the other hand, even if she hasn’t been sleeping with Peter, she’s been doing everything else with almost every waking minute of the day and I can’t stand that any longer.

“Tomorrow,” I repeat dumbly. I take a bite of toast and say, almost to myself. “I’ll be here when she gets back.”

The guys loosen up towards the end of our little impromptu breakfast. Peter’s got quite a nice line in self-deprecating humour, I discover, and the way Scott gazes at him, laughing anxiously at all his jokes, is quite sweet. They’re just getting up to leave when the door bells rings.

I look at my watch. Eleven fifteen. They’re early.

“Oh, it’s just the police,” I explain. The others look horrified again. “They’re just bringing back some computers and papers they took, you know for this whole, stupid investigation thing.”

“I’ll tell you about it in the car,” says Peter to Scott. “Charlie’s had a nightmare time of it for the last few weeks.”

“Harsh,” says Scott, sympathetically. “Way harsh.”

They pick up their stuff—car keys and blazer for Peter, rucksack and Walkman for Scott—and make towards the door.

“Listen, Charlie, mate, I hope you and Lauren do get it back together, you’re a lovely couple,” says Peter. I’m about to say “Thanks” or something but suddenly my throat feels tight. Instead I just smile and nod. The bell rings again.

I open the door to Slapton.

“Thanks, Peter,” I cough at him. “I appreciate it. Sorry I started kicking the shit out of you like that, just didn’t understand the situation. Saw red, you know?”

Peter touches his hair again deftly and, finding it’s all still attached to his head, smiles.

“Good to meet you, dude. Sorry about the bed thing,” says Scott. He holds up a hand and I give it a high five.

“No worries, mate.”

They squeeze past Slapton. He looks confused and suspicious as he tries to make sense of the exchange he’s just witnessed.

“Come in,” I tell him. Two junior officers, both struggling with large boxes are obviously very pleased to hear that. Slapton wanders in and they follow. “Just dump it all on the floor, here,” I say, pointing to a place by the coat rack.

One of the policemen goes out to get another box while the other produces a piece of paper and asks me to sign to say I’ve received them.

“What’s the next stage in the investigation?” I ask Slapton.

He sucks his teeth for a moment and then says:

“Our investigators can’t actually find any evidence of wrongdoing. We’ve informed your solicitor of that so he’ll be giving you a ring about it soon. Also, none of the investors is willing to assist us with any future action.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” says Slapton through gritted teeth. “Really. They all seem quite happy to have thrown their money away. Apparently they’re very glad to think that you and the others have spent it all on designer clothes and champagne and…and…flower displays,” he snarls.

“Oh, thank God for that.” My second huge relief of the day and it’s only eleven thirty. I feel like I’m on drugs, punch drunk with good news. All I need now is a lottery win.

“We’re really just back to a missing persons investigation which doesn’t affect me,” he says bitterly. “I go after criminals.”

“Well, thanks very much,” I say. I go to open the door.

“There is just one thing,” says Slapton who hasn’t moved from his position in the hallway. “I’d just like you to have a look at something for me. If you don’t mind.”

“Sure.” I don’t like the sound of this.

“Can we…?” He looks towards the living room.

“Of course,” I say, leading him in. There is an awkward moment as Slapton sits down before me. I just want him out of here, so badly. I want this to be a happy, trouble-free place for when Lauren gets back so that we can talk about everything.

He hands me a list of names.

“Do you know any of these people?”

I glance down the list.

“I’ve heard of most of them,” I say, noticing Sir Josh Langdon, Sir James Huntsman and various other wealthy, glamorous, important names who were at our launch party together with some others who were also at the Huntsman party.

But then, towards the end, strangely out of alphabetical order, is one name that makes me gasp, almost audibly. I read it again to make sure, before handing the list back to Slapton.

He’s smiling, the bastard.

“Any that jump out at you?” he says, casually.

“No,” I say gruffly. “No, like I say, I know
of
them, well, most of them, and I’ve met Sir James and Lady Huntsman once but nothing more than that.”

“I think there’s at least one there that you know.”

I look down again just to check.

“Yes.”

“Recognise some of them as investors in 2cool?”

“Some of them, yes.” They were on the list of names that I printed off from Piers’s computer just after they disappeared.

“Oh, well. Just wondered,” says Slapton. He pulls himself up, groaning slighty with the effort. “Well, thanks again for your help.”

“You’re welcome.” I lead him out into the hall. The other policemen have already left.

“Sorry to interrupt when you had visitors,” he says, raising one eyebrow very slightly. “Your girlfriend away is she?”

“She’s back tomorrow,” I tell him.

“I might well be in touch again about that list,” he says. “Good-bye, Mr. Barrett.”

I know why he’s smiling. It’s not my “visitors.”

He saw me look down that list and notice that name, the one he wanted me to see, the one name that neither of us mentioned.

John Barrett.

Why is my dad’s name on that list?

I knew it was too good to be true. Two lots of good news in one day. Then one bit of awful, confusing, distburbing news. I wander into the kitchen. My dad’s appearance on this list doesn’t necessarily mean he’s done anything wrong, does it?