Encore Encore (13 page)

“Oh.” Miss Otis wasn’t going to be able to live down the times she’d behaved herself, either. Changing the subject seemed the only safe bet. “Anyway, why are you knocking my crowd when you’re the one who propositioned me?”

“Oh yeah, I did. Sorry, that was two beers on an empty stomach talking. Lightweight, that’s me.”

“And you a rugby player. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Francis took the explanation as if it was the truth. “Get something to eat now, for goodness sake. Don’t want you making any more passes then changing your mind midway down.” Tommy’s knowing grin raised his guest’s optimism again.

Among other things. “Cheese and biscuits do you?” The table was soon littered with Jacob’s Crackers, water biscuits, some digestive crumbs and the remains of a camembert. A couple of wrinkled, rejected grapes sat among them like jewels.

“I’d forgotten how long it was since I’d eaten.” Francis eyed his almost empty glass; it hadn’t been refi lled since the food had appeared. He nudged it subtly.

“Sorry, I didn’t notice. Look, don’t stand on ceremony, help yourself if you want a drink. Or anything else for that matter.

There’s some chocolate cake in the fridge.”

“Blimey, after the cheese that’d be a heart attack on a plate, wouldn’t it? Or me getting so heavy I’d break that ladder during my routine. I hate to be a goodie two shoes, but I could go some more grapes, if there’s any lurking.” He watched carefully as Tommy scrabbled about in the bottom of the fridge to extract
94 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

some fruit from the salad box. He had a cute arse to match his cute face. “So are you any good at rugby?”

“Fair to middling.” The grapes had been found and were being drowned under the cold tap before consumption. “Winger, but I think I told you that. I enjoy playing for fun. Couldn’t be a pro.” Francis could think of a dozen dirty follow up remarks he could have made, would have made if they’d still been at the bar, but the mood had subtly changed. Change tack again. He’d been looking around for any clues about whether someone else shared this place, although none had turned up. He chanced it. “Just you living here?”

“Yeah. No lodger. No signifi cant other. Tommy no mates.” Tommy grinned. It had been plain from the goodbyes he’d got at the bar that he had plenty of pals, several of whom looked like they’d have happily swopped places with him. There was a pin board in the kitchen covered in photos, too—team shots, action shots, holidays and family.

One picture in particular struck Francis. “That blond bloke looks like a mate.” He immediately knew he shouldn’t have said it.

The look Tommy wore was the same
he
must have had plastered on his gob when people mentioned Mannering. After the break.

“Sorry, think I put my foot in it.”

“I should take that picture down, but somehow every time I mean to I get cold feet. That’s Rickie.” The way the name was spoken made it full of a hundred different meanings and emotions. “He was a bloody great player—Premiership for a couple of seasons, now he’s Magners League.” Tommy’s voice couldn’t quite hide the pride that bubbled under the hurt. “That was two years ago, his sister took the picture.” He turned away from the pin board. “Come on, the lounge is more comfortable than sitting here.”

They moved into the living room, the bottle coming to keep them company. An old fashioned sofa, one that looked like it had recently been re-covered, was side on to the fi replace, where the original hearth now housed one of those gas open-effect fi res which usually produced more effect than heat. Francis was ENCORE! ENCORE!
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pleased to fi nd that this one, once lit, took the edge off what was becoming a chilly night. “Were you happy with him? Your Rickie?” It sounded such a bloody stupid question once it was out.

Tommy had snuggled into the corner of the settee, kicking his shoes off like a little boy. “I want to say they were happy days but I’m not sure that’s true. Sometimes, that’s all.” Talk about a mirror on his own world. This was too painful for Francis to make light of or joke about. “Play for the same team?”

“No, he was always much better than I was. We met through a mate who’d been in a young players’ development squad with him. I never worked out whether this mate knew about both of us. I mean, he knew I was gay, but Rickie…” he shrugged. “If he had guessed, he never let on. Rickie would have killed him. Even further in the closet than Mr. Tumnus.”

“Bloody hell.” Francis’s mother had always said that some things were meant to be. Maybe he’d been meant to storm out of the party and into a bar with this guy. Perhaps they were doomed to be comrades in arms against all the closeted, “beard” bearing bastards. “All took place behind closed doors then? Never to be seen together in public?”

“Oh, I was allowed to come to the match, if I’d been a good little boy.” Bitterness and ashes. Tommy, who’d been the one to have the foresight to bring another bottle of wine with him, poured them both another glass. “All lads together.”

“That must have been fun.” Francis’s little sideways glance made sure his host had caught the sarcasm.

“I hated it.” The silence following this simple remark spoke volumes. “I’d say ‘Have a good game,’ get no answer and then spend most of the match wondering if he hadn’t heard me or was just ignoring it.”

“Did
he
have a surname?”
Apart from
bloody ungrateful sod
for
having given you the push.

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“He did, but I won’t tell you it. As I said, he’s still playing top fl ight, and I wouldn’t put it past you to turn up at a game in the full regalia and pretend he’d got you in the club last time they played the Ospreys.” Tommy grinned. “Actually, I’d pay a fortune to see that. Anyway, it used to be the same routine every weekend. The other players parking their cars, getting out their suit bags for after the match, unloading their girlfriends. They always had a girlfriend—the only other blokes in the players’ cars were their dads. Maybe if I’d been a willowy blonde, bust like a pair of melons, I’d have been allowed through the door marked
Players’ Guests.
”

“So where did you end up?” Francis had never been to a big match, and had to imagine a setting as esoteric to him as backstage would have been to Tommy.

“Back of the North stand, grabbing a Bovril and usually freezing my nuts off.”

“Sounds charming.” Actually, it did sound charming when Tommy said it. Even Francis could imagine enjoying himself on some uncomfortable seat in a draughty stadium if he had this bloke at his side, with a promise of a post match warm up.

“Philistine. Not you at the game—him. Why the hell couldn’t he—” Francis didn’t even get the chance to fi nish.

“Aw, be fair. He was a big name, just been out to Canada with England Saxons.” It was the old story. Making a butterfl y-like entrance from the chrysalis of the closet might be all very well in the theatre, where you couldn’t wander down Drury Lane without falling over—sometimes literally—droves of gay, out, blokes. The playing fi elds of England weren’t the same. “How many professional sportsmen have dared to come out, eh? Want to name them—it won’t take long.”

“Unfair question. I couldn’t name any, apart from you.” Francis tried a joke. “Ask me one about the fi lms of Judy Garland.” The joke didn’t help.

“Rickie used to ask me the same thing, when I was telling him how pissed off I was at always being invisible if any of his mates ENCORE! ENCORE!
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were around. ‘Tell me how many big names have come out.’ I’d say Blyth Tait, and be told
he
didn’t count.”

“Who the fuck is he?” Francis sprawled on the settee. This had all the hallmarks of a long, bleeding heart type evening. He’d always thought that only the “luvvies” had them, that “real men” didn’t bare their souls to one another. Clearly even rugby playing architects did, especially when they’d had a few.

“Three day eventer. Olympic Champion. See, that doesn’t even impress you.” Tommy slammed the bottle down on the fl oor, as if he wanted to break it and the memories of Rickie with it. “He used to say eventing didn’t count as a man’s sport. I guess it wouldn’t, in his book, because it’s got women involved as well. ‘Devalues sport, the chance of some bint beating you,’ that’s what the great Rickie used to think about horse sport. All toffee nosed tarts and poncy blokes.”

“I wish he’d seen me, Tommy.” Francis’s voice was soft. If Tommy hadn’t intended getting a pass made at him, then he shouldn’t have poured his heart out—there was only so much temptation a bloke could take and not give into. He tentatively stroked Tommy’s incredibly beddable arm. “Which one would he think me, your Rickie? A toffee nosed tart or a ponce?”

“A bloody embarrassment, that’s what Rickie would have said.

Wouldn’t have been seen within a mile of you. Strictly non-scene of any sort.” Tommy started to laugh, not his usual attractive ripple of giggles, but an uncharacteristically bitter sound. “He didn’t even like it when his team wore pink shirts a couple of times to support breast cancer research. Moaned about it for a week afterwards.” The resentment deepened. “He didn’t even like it if the shirt sponsors’ names weren’t butch enough.”

“He needs his head examined. Not just for being the biggest arse this side of, oh hell, someone with an enormous arse.” Francis curled closer, close enough to smell how sweet Tommy’s breath was, what good quality his cologne must be. Yeah, this bloke had class. “Anyone who was ashamed of you must be off their rocker.” He tipped Tommy’s face towards him, leaned over
98 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

expecting a kiss and got one. The trip home from the bar had either been forgotten or forgiven.

As fi rst kisses go, it was pretty nice and as fi rst kisses usually go it went in an instant, leaving just a memory of something fl ashing and arcing between them. Something that was seventy percent desire and thirty percent something else, something more subtle and substantial than lust.

“You kiss better than he did, too.” Clearly, from the enthusiastic way Tommy grabbed another kiss, tongue eager to get into Francis’s mouth and ruck around a bit or whatever it was these sweaty blokes got up to out on the pitch.

“I bet I do everything better than he did.” He’d had hold of Tommy’s arm, but now his hand slipped down to the man’s waist, caressing the taut muscles through his fi ne cotton shirt.

“You talk a good game, anyway.” They gave up talking for a while—what was the point when kissing felt so good, when Tommy’s tongue had started to explore the side of Francis’s neck?

“Call my bluff, Tommy boy. I’ll show you how good I can be.” He hadn’t felt this way in years, not since the heady fi rst honeymoon days with James—almost literally on honeymoon in a little cottage in north Devon where it never stopped raining outside but who cared when you barely made it out of bed? No quick screw in a hotel room on the south coast or an all-night job in a nice fl at up west with eggs and bacon in the morning could compare to the sweet intimacy of Tommy’s kisses. Maybe it was because the bloke was shy and nice and didn’t seem to hop into the sack with just anybody. And maybe he genuinely cared for the guy he was licking the ears of.

Francis leaned back, pulling Tommy with him, ripping the shirt from out of his waistband so he could see how much muscle a winger had on his back. Plenty. There didn’t seem to be an inch of excess fat on his waistline and his six-pack, when Francis got his fi ngers on it, felt like it had been designed to grate ginger. No one could have guessed the guy was so ripped under that innocent looking striped shirt.

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“Bloody hell, Francis, the curtains are still open. Let me close them or the neighbours will have a fi t.” Tommy broke free from the embrace, not without snatching a quick kiss, then fussed over the heavy red velvet drapes on the window.

“Let them. Plenty of people pay good money to see me perform—let’s give them a show for free.” Francis could move quickly. He’d got across the room behind Tommy and sneaked his arms around the bloke’s neat little waist, before he’d even got the last gap between the curtains to close.

Tommy slapped the hands on his stomach but didn’t remove them. “Don’t give your audience ideas. There’s a nosy old cow lives across the road who always seems to have her beady eye on what’s going on over here.” That fact didn’t stop him leaning back into the embrace as he twitched the last opening shut.

“Probably gives her the only thrill she gets apart from feeding her budgie.” Francis traced the line of Tommy’s neck with an eager tongue. “Better acting than the muck she gets on the telly, and better looking leading men in it.”

“I don’t suppose she gets much x-rated stuff, poor cow.” Tommy didn’t turn, just let his hands work down along Francis’s slim waist and muscular thighs.

Those hands felt delightful, velvet conveying the subtlety of sensations more effi ciently than cotton. Why did anyone bother with always wearing chinos or suit trousers when this material was so sensual? Shame Tommy’s jeans didn’t allow the same feeling—denim was such a hard, unforgiving material. The sooner they were got rid of, the better. Francis made a beeline for his friend’s—too early to say his lover’s—fl ies, edging down the zip and fi ddling with the button.
Wrong order again, you’d have
thought I’d have learned it was button fi rst by now.

“You’re in a tearing hurry. Old Nosey Parker across the road would have died if she’d seen that going on, and we’d have had to call for the doctor. That would have dampened your ardour.” Tommy took one of the hands that had settled on his crotch, brought it onto his stomach and let it work downwards again.

100 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

“I want you, Tommy.” That much was blatantly obvious, Francis’s crotch pressing hard against his friend’s buttocks. Velvet and denim couldn’t conceal just how excited he was. “Want to be inside you.”

“Sh.” Tommy’s fi ngers crept up, fi nding Francis’ mouth and caressing it. “Not tonight, not fi rst time. I never do that fi rst time.”