Encore Encore (12 page)

“Not the usual crowd you hang around with, then?” There was a lilt to beddable bloke’s voice, Scottish maybe, that was soothing.

It was such a good contrast to the usual lovey-dovey tones Francis was surrounded by that he could feel the last vestiges of anger giving up the fi ght, and fading away. Let the buggers go, tonight was going to be about relaxation and fun.

“You could say that. Bloody good thing, too.” Francis drained his bottle, gesturing with it towards the bar. “What are you having?”

“I’ll join you in one of those. Toast your success.”

“Sorry?”

“Your success in the show. I saw it two nights back, got some tickets from my sister. She works as a PA and the corporate bums that were supposed to be warming the seats got corporate piles or something. You were good.” The lilting voice was matched by a gentle grin. “Better than the Welsh bird in the fi lm.” Oh bloody hell. A fanboy. Next thing it would be “lovey” and

“dahling” and Francis would be back to square one. “Very kind.” He loaded the comment with a disdainful edge, but beddable bloke seemed either too thick or too innocent to notice.

“Sorry. You must be sick of people making a song and dance about you. Oh fuck, I didn’t mean to…” He went bright red.

“Make a stupid joke? No, you’re okay. Honest.” Francis found himself grinning, touched by the simple sincerity on display. He’d been mistaken—this wasn’t your usual ingratiating backstage crap.

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It seemed genuine and was totally unexpected. And how could he reply and not appear either a cocky bastard or a complete idiot? “Thank you.” It sounded a bit thin but it seemed enough for the moment.

The barman came over in short order. Francis’s sister always vowed that being female made her invisible at the bar, even with a twenty quid note in her hand, but she was mousy, and never bothered about padding her bra. The fi rst of those could never be said of her brother, and the second didn’t apply sometimes, either. Barmen, as a rule, made a beeline when Francis was out with a bit of his war paint on, whether the pub was gay or straight.

Although in that case he needed all his slap on.

Strange how lipstick, mascara and a slinky outfi t had been enough to fool the blokes, the three times he’d tried it. Easing into the pub, into the conversation, getting himself chatted up then leaving them all gagging for it. The fourth time? The scar on his arm was evidence enough of what had happened then. He hadn’t done it since, nor had he told Freddie the whole story. Let him carry on thinking it was just mixing with the wrong part of the scene.

He smiled nervously at beddable bloke, got a reassuring grin in return, then picked up the beers. They were perfectly chilled, the usual handsome pattern of drips meandering down the frosted green glass to create a mouth watering design. More beautiful than the Mona Lisa, a cold bottle of beer on a warm night.

“Thanks.” Beddable bloke took his Peroni appreciatively, tipped his head towards the side of the bar and started to make a lane through the crowd. “There’s usually a seat over here, behind the fi sh tank.”

“Ooh, you do take a girl to the most romantic places.” Francis simpered, immediately regretting it. This guy might have enjoyed
Chicago
, fi lm and stage version, but that alone was no indication about how much camp he was prepared to take. He seemed ordinary, nice, rugby club butch, and had a great slab of “the boy next door” about him. Just how James Mannering had seemed when they’d fi rst met. Francis shivered.

88 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

“Are you cold? Sorry, I can fi nd a table somewhere a bit warmer.” Beddable bloke’s dark brown eyes seemed troubled and truly apologetic that he’d only a small corner of red velvet banquette to offer, rather than some swish corner of a swanky hotel.

“No, it’s fi ne here. It was just someone walking over my grave.” Francis settled himself, smoothing the pleats of his elegant trouser suit, chosen because the colour matched his eyes and because he’d once seen a picture of Katherine Hepburn wearing a similar one. It screamed at the vivid red of the seat, and couldn’t have added to the overall impression of suavity he was trying to create, but that couldn’t be helped. The seclusion was worth more than any purely superfi cial effect. “Do you come here often?”

“If it’s ‘Let’s use the corniest cliché’ day’ can I join in?” Beddable bloke grinned. “I do hang around here a lot, actually.

I’m one of the rugby team, if you hadn’t guessed.” He pointed towards the blokes at the bar, as if Francis might have forgotten why they were built like barn doors. “The name’s Tommy. I know you’re called Francis, I remember from the programme. Made a note.” The last part was spoken into Tommy’s beer, like it was a confession only fi t for the contents of the bottle to hear. “Unless that’s a stage name, of course.” He looked up, troubled again.

“No, it’s my own name. Even when I’m in this.” Francis caressed the silky material of his jacket. “In case you’re surprised it’s not Francesca or Frannie the trannie. This is me.” He caught Tommy’s eye, but couldn’t read the dark brown depths. “And I guessed you were one of the rugger buggers.” Francis looked around, really getting his bearings this time and with it a surprise he should have anticipated. “Bloody hell, it must be ‘stick out like a sore thumb day,’ too and I guess I’ve won fi rst prize.”

“Yeah. Not a lot of call for camp in here. You want the bar up the road for that.” Tommy addressed his beer again. “Only, it would be nice if you didn’t take yourself off there just yet.”

“Not if all the blokes here look like them.” One of the big guys at the bar was slipping off his shirt, making a big scene ENCORE! ENCORE!
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about getting his six-pack out for general admiration. Francis had seen worse.

“They’re the better end of the range—you’ve come here on a good night. Sometimes it’s like a blue cross clearance event.

Load of rubbish.” If Tommy had a cute, innocent smile he had an equally wicked grin to balance it up.

“It’s a hell of a lot better than the place up the road, if you’re talking about the joint between here and the station. Looked a bloody dive and the talent at the door wasn’t enticing. Scared the pants onto me, if you get my drift.”

“Nice cut to the pants, anyway.” Tommy took a swift, appreciative glance at Francis’s legs. “Contents are nice, too. I loved that bit where you were swinging on the ladder. Legs up to your armpits, as my mother would say.”

“There’s something about black tights for making the best of your pins.” No one could deny that—they made them look longer, thinner, smoother. “Women with fat legs shouldn’t be allowed to wear fl esh coloured stockings. Or mini skirts.” Francis wondered if Tommy ever indulged in nylons. “High heels make your legs look better, as well.”

“I’ve noticed that—it must be the muscle defi nition or something. Women in fl at shoes can look a right bloody mess from behind.” Tommy was warming to his theme. “Doesn’t apply to rugby boots, though. Must be something to do with the studs or the instep support. Calves and thighs look great in them.”

“You a foot fetishist or something?” Francis couldn’t drink his beer for laughter. This bloke didn’t look like a pervert but he was starting to talk like one. Why did they make a beeline for him?

“No, I’m an architect. And when I’m not admiring the nice lines of a building I’m eyeing up the opposition’s calves and thighs. You get a lot of time to do that from the wing.” He leaned closer, the shy smile reappearing. “I liked eyeing up your thighs, too, when you were swinging your legs around.”
90 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

“Leg man, then.” The laughter from the bar swelled, another one of the forwards taking off his shirt and showing his All-Black style tattoos, to a background of obscene comments.

Francis had seen better and heard worse. For once he felt cut off from the bar culture, embarrassed by the cheap jokes, sickened by the drinking scene—and from what earnest and condemnatory broadsheet had he picked that term up? Tonight, sleazy pick ups had ceased to appeal, as well. He was wondering, like Velma and Mama Morton had, whatever had happened to class when he remembered that a bit of it was sitting to his right.

“Yeah. And I like chests when I can get a look at a decent one.” Tommy was still smiling, still sitting being a nice boy next door type, although one who wasn’t necessarily a picture of innocence.

Not if he could come out with some of the lines he used. “Care to come home and let me get a look at yours?” From anyone else it would have sounded horribly corny. The fact Tommy looked as if he thought he was the fi rst bloke ever to use such a hook made him more adorable. Silly sod.

“Is that your standard pick up line? Along with the one about whether blokes come here often?” Francis grinned at the fl ush on Tommy’s cheeks. “You’re absolutely classic.” He eased himself to his feet. Bloody hell, they were sore tonight. He must have danced even harder than normal—he wouldn’t entertain any thought that he was no longer in the fi rst fl ush of youth.

“Come on then, if you’ve got a decent bottle of white wine in your fridge and you promise to stop spewing out the clichés, I’ll come along. Do we need to get a taxi?”

“Not if you can manage a ten minute walk.” Francis didn’t miss the surreptitious glance Tommy took, clearly trying to weigh up if he was in walking or dancing shoes.

Pains in the balls of his feet notwithstanding, he was determined it was Shank’s pony all the way. He had an alluring walk when he cared to switch it on—it always impressed the bits of rough, and the classy blokes liked it too, although whether Tommy qualifi ed for that adjective was yet to be established. Freddie was going to kill him, going home with some guy he’d only just met, and who ENCORE! ENCORE!
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could easily turn out to be a total psycho beneath the nice guy exterior. But Freddie wasn’t going to fi nd out. “Only ten minutes?

I’m up for that.” He resisted saying he was up for anything on offer—Freddie would kill him for that, too.

“You’ve got a nice place, here.” Francis took in his surroundings with real appreciation. Tommy clearly had both class and taste, not necessarily two things which went together. The fl at was in one of the better parts off the Kings Road, a fi rst fl oor conversion in a Victorian house straight out of
Upstairs Downstairs.
Francis guessed this had been where the family had its reception rooms, the high ceilings and elegant mouldings adding to the sense of quality. Architects must make a handy living, to afford a place like this.
He
had to make do with something modern and utilitarian near Victoria Station.

“Thanks. It was my uncle’s, originally. His mother’s family had the house from when it was fi rst built, and he had the place divided into fl ats. I came into this one when he died. I could never have afforded it otherwise. Architects aren’t Premiership footballers.”

Tommy’s self deprecating smile wasn’t just cute, it was a powerful aphrodisiac. Francis wondered whether he knew it and used it. “If you were a Premiership footballer wouldn’t you be living in Canford Cliffs or somewhere?”

“If I was a Premiership footballer I’d be so far inside the closet I’d…”

“…be talking to Mr. Tumnus,” Francis joined in. “Glad you’re not, I suppose.”

“Am
I
glad or are
you
glad?” Tommy led the way through to the kitchen, another elegant room with a large, homely table and four carver chairs around it. “Take a pew. You defi nitely want white wine? There’s half a bottle of really good red here.”

“White, please.” Francis sat down warily, afraid that some random splinter might snag his suit, but the wood was as smooth and well kept as the jaw line of the man who owned it. “And in
92 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

terms of glad, I suspect we both are. If you were in the closet I’d not have met you. Not in any sort of situation to take advantage of it.” He put the memories of cruising the straight pubs fi rmly to the back of his mind.

“Taking advantage of me, are you? Seems a bit premature.” Tommy placed a nicely chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio on the table, two stylish glasses beside it.

“Only if you don’t want me to. Otherwise it’s timely.”

“We’ll see.” The wine was poured, tinkling seductively into the glasses.

Was this the bloke who’d been making the leg and chest remarks—what the hell had happened between the club and here to make him shy again? Francis remembered a remark or two aimed at them by the smokers outside a pub as they’d passed it.

Ordinary local, full of straight blokes, or at least ones who weren’t out yet, as Freddie sometimes called them. Rat-arsed, having a last drag and eyeing up the tarts before they went off to get a prawn vindaloo somewhere. They’d clearly thought Francis was one of the tarts on display and had offered their services. He’d ignored them—glad he didn’t play that game any more—but Tommy had defi nitely bridled, turning up his collar and quickening his pace.

Either he hated the thought that they reckoned he was with a girl or he couldn’t bear being seen out with a bloke in lipstick.

Bugger it if he’d ended up with another James fucking Mannering.

Tommy fi ddled with the stem of his wine glass. “Maybe I’m not as fast as the crowd you run with.”

“And what sort of crowd do I run with, Tommy boy?” Francis took in the wine’s bouquet—fruity, stimulating—before he started to drink. This wasn’t a bottle of Sainsbury’s plonk, and deserved to be savoured. “Have you any idea?”

“Sorry. Shouldn’t have assumed…” He didn’t fi nish the sentence, drinking his own wine instead.

“Don’t apologise. The stage hardly has a reputation for celibates and ascetics, has it?” Francis smiled. This boy next door ENCORE! ENCORE!
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wasn’t a Sainsbury’s type, either. Caviar rather than pot noodles, and to be treated accordingly. “Although maybe I’m the exception.

Perhaps I spend all my time knitting little jumpers for orphans.”

“Silly tart. Actually I know what you get up to. You and the rest of the crew put together that package they auctioned on Radio Two for Children in Need, didn’t you? I couldn’t afford to bid for it myself, I just hope that whoever won it appreciated what they got.”