This Other Country (8 page)

The first course looked very good. On the plate. Decorative. Green cucumber rinds and the pink of the shrimp made an appealing contrast in colour and texture, so he was told. He complimented Ben and took a bite. His throat froze. His eyes actually started to water. To cover, he rose and fetched a bottle of chilled white wine from the fridge, staying with his back to the room longer than necessary in order to swallow. Suddenly, he heard gagging noises, and Ben rushed to the sink, spitting. “Fucking hell! What is this?”

Nikolas had to agree: what was it indeed? Upon consultation, they decided
tsp
didn’t mean the large stirring spoon Ben had ladled the hot chilli sauce in with. It was the only explanation. That course was cleared, and after splitting the bottle of wine companionably between them, they were able to face the next. Obviously, if he started with red wine, it didn’t count on his three-glass limit if he then switched to white. Besides, he was only drinking to keep Ben company, so that didn’t count anyway. The lobster promised to be very good. They both ate a lot of lobster, as Nikolas rarely ate meat and could afford to eat what he liked when they went out. He took a forkful enthusiastically, prepared for it to be not as good as at his favourite restaurant, but…not for it to spring back when he tried to bite it. And spring again, like a little piece of rubber in his mouth. Ben was poking his, talking knowledgably about choosing the right lobster. Nikolas murmured his agreement, but delicately and unobtrusively spat his chewy hunk into his napkin. He clicked his fingers for Radulf who, getting that stealth was required, slithered unobtrusively from his basket and came over. Nikolas dropped the offering to the floor. Radulf snapped it up. A second, larger piece went the same way. All Nikolas got was jaw exercise and some cold, congealed butter to savour.

“…so, anyway, I decided I didn’t really need one.”

Nikolas took a long (very long) swallow of wine and asked politely, “Sorry? What? Need what?”

“A thermometer. I didn’t have one. Said the
beurre monte
had to be just the right temperature or the meat would be chewy. Pretentious crap.” He took a large mouthful. Nikolas watched with interest out of the corner of his eye as he prodded the vegetables. He wasn’t an expert, but he’d eaten at the finest restaurants most of his life, and he was fairly sure snow peas couldn’t be substituted with normal peas still in their pods.
Hey ho.
He eyed Radulf, but the dog was still trying to swallow his third offering of lobster. Ben was still trying to chomp through his first—until that went the way of the shrimp, with a similar explosion of profanity. Nikolas normally didn’t let Ben swear—not because it bothered him, but because he liked telling Ben off—but he let it go this one time. He felt like saying fucking hell, too.

Ben cleared it all away and produced his
pièce de résistance
. Again, Nikolas was no expert, but even he could have told Ben that soufflé was ambitious for a beginner—and chocolate? Ben didn’t even attempt to explain it away. They just stared at it for a while. Nikolas was tempted to point out that he’d seen similar things on pavements.

“You opened the oven?”

Ben nodded.

“Although it cautioned not to?”

Again a nod. “I had to see it, didn’t I?”

“Apparently not. Shall we adjourn to our favourite restaurant?”

Ben pouted but nodded. He glanced at his watch and sank lower in his seat. “Four hours.” He regarded the kitchen and sank his head into his hands. Nikolas readjusted his wilting flower. Then he chuckled.

“What?”

“I was just trying to imagine Nigel and Justin attempting to pass themselves off as Special Forces…”

§ § §

Ben had cheered up considerably by the time they got home, as had Nikolas, because, obviously, wine drunk at restaurants didn’t have to get added to wine drunk at home when calculating your three-glass limit. That was so obvious it shouldn’t really need explaining. Nikolas had even managed to sneak up to his office in the glass tower and smoke a couple of cigarettes on the pretext of fetching some paperwork. The taste of the congealed butter had finally gone away.

It was unfortunate, therefore, that he padded back down to the kitchen in bare feet later that night. He was averting his eyes from the mess, concentrating on finding a clean glass for some water, when he stepped in it.

The lobster hadn’t agreed with Radulf either, only its effects had taken longer to work on his digestive system.

CHAPTER SIX

The course was in Lancashire. Not a county either of them knew. It was a four-hour drive, possibly five, depending on traffic, and Ben settled into a nice steady ninety in the outer lane of the M1. He was quiet. He hadn’t put Radio 1 on yet. He hadn’t started commenting on everyone else’s crap driving. Nikolas cast him a furtive glance, smiling privately, but insisted seriously, “It doesn’t matter, Ben. It’s only a cover story. Don’t take failure so personally. We can’t all be good at everything.”

“No, that’s exactly—” He stopped and glanced over. “Oh, very funny.” He tapped his fingers on the wheel for a while then added more thoughtfully, “But don’t you think it’s weird? I mean, I can read, so why can’t I follow a simple instruction and get it right?”

“I’ve no idea. I had no problem with my flowers. I’m almost a black belt in flower arranging.”

Ben had radar for Nikolas-bullshit and clearly recognised the tone. Nikolas knew Ben never listened beyond the first words of any such pronouncements and, true to form, Ben ignored him now and carried on with his own train of thought. “I’m going to master it. I’ve decided. We’ve got that bloody great big kitchen in Devon, and we’ve never even taken a pan down off the rack.”

Nikolas thought of his gleaming chrome kitchen in the glass house and then of the kitchen last night (and this morning, as he’d left Radulf and the kitchen for Kate to sort—sometimes his punishments for insubordination were masterful) and had a vision of things to come. He thought back to the perfect calm of Philipa’s house. The meals produced by unseen hands and offered on the finest china; of intelligent conversation; his library; his unrestrained enjoyment of whiskey and wine. He turned his head and considered Ben. He tugged the studded earlobe. He had Ben Rider-Mikkelsen. What else could he possibly need? “Good idea. You know how I always advocate a healthy diet. I would very much like to see you producing one for me.”

Ben sent him an eye flick of derision but apparently went back to his elaborate plans to become a master chef.

After a few more miles, Nikolas sighed. “We need to discuss our strategy.”

“Strategy?”

“Hmm. We are there to discover why some of the participants remain for a further three weeks, no? So, we need to make sure we survive the first week by sticking to our cover stories. I don’t believe this course will be what either of us has experienced before during covert operations.”

“Why?”

Nikolas was pained to admit, “Well, for one thing, this strikes close to home for you, no? I don’t think you’ll be able to separate the role you’re playing with your own circumstances.”

“Me? I won’t be able to? What about you?”

“Ack. I’m thinking of you, Ben. You’ll see everything as relating to you personally. Which won’t be the case.”

Ben thought about this for a while. “What you mean is you’re going to find this difficult and you’re going to take it out on me.”

“There. See? That’s
exactly
what I mean. You’ll not be able to separate our roles from our real life and will misinterpret everything I say to suit your own agenda—the one where you’re badly treated and some kind of mistrodden underdog.”

“That’s not a real word.”

“Of course it is. Who actually had to learn his English, Benjamin? Not you. So, as I was saying, you’ll take what I claim in my role as
Nigel
to be
me
saying it.
As me
. And you won’t like it. Do you see what I’m saying?”

“No!”

Nikolas sighed. “Pull over at the next service station. Please, obviously—God forbid I should forget to say please these days.”

Ben pulled over as requested and parked. He turned with a questioning frown to Nikolas.

Nikolas stared ahead then began in something of a rush, “We are playing men who are in relationship crisis. Nigel is resentful of Justin. He wants…things Justin isn’t prepared to give him. He wants to adopt children, which implies Justin isn’t enough for him, no? That some completeness in his life is missing?” He twisted around to face Ben and put a hand on his thigh. This was so unexpected and so uncharacteristic Ben automatically covered the hand with his, as if some kind of bad news was about to be presented that needed that level of physical support. Nikolas studied their joined hands. “I need you to know, that’s all.”

Ben waited. When nothing more was forthcoming, he frowned. “And? What?”

Nikolas grimaced. “Do I need to say it?”

“Yes?”

He looked up at the unfamiliar blue eyes. “It’s not me! Saying these things. Damn.” He stared out of his side window then back at Ben. “I don’t want anything between us different to how it is now! You are absolutely perfect just as you are, and whatever you hear me say won’t be the truth about us! Jesus, Benjamin, do I really need to say this?” He suddenly rummaged in his pocket. “By the way, I’ve bought you this.”

Apparently distracted by the wholly uncharacteristic declaration, Ben could only point out, “I have a watch. You bought me this one, too.”

Nikolas nodded, undoing Ben’s expensive, beautiful watch, keeping him distracted. “I know, and this is only a cheap one, but it’s more in keeping with Justin, no?” He fastened the new one on. It was very big and chunky. Ben shrugged, but Nikolas could see he was pleased with it. Ben liked anything he bought him.

Good.

He’d wear it then.

Perfection had to be protected.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The address they’d been given took them to the eastern borders of the county and to a country house set in a wooded valley overshadowed by a steep hill. The house had an ugly, square Victorian façade, which screamed industrial money over landed taste, but as neither had known what to expect from this course, and had been vaguely picturing living in tepees or yurts to get back to nature and discover their inner selves with tambourines, they were both glad to see solid brick and a promise of some comfort. They were a florist and a chef, after all.

Ben opened the tailgate and prepared to carry their bags in. Nikolas stopped him, held out his hand and took his own bag. Ben’s brows rose. He seemed surprised Nikolas was willing to go that far to get into a role. Nikolas refused to acknowledge anything funny in the situation and made his way to the front door.

There was a reception desk, just as would be found in any normal hotel, and their names—Nigel and Justin—on laminated badges for them to wear. There were fourteen other badges still awaiting collection, and a quick glance at the book as he registered, to see how many had already signed in, told Nikolas there would be twenty men on the course in total.

They were handed two keys and directed to separate rooms. This didn’t bother them unduly as Nikolas knew Ben would find his room and sleep there. It was with some genuine annoyance therefore they discovered the rooms were single and the beds standard English sized: two-foot-four inches wide. Nikolas doubted he’d be able to fit in one on his own, let alone with Ben Rider-Mikkelsen.

Whatever…He hadn’t had to sleep on the floor for a very long time, but needs must as the devil—

“What’s that?”

Nikolas and the man showing them their rooms turned to look at the unit Ben was pointing to high up on one wall.

The man intoned neutrally, “CCTV. All the rooms are monitored. It will all be explained at the orientation. Please assemble in reception at 2 o’clock.”

Nikolas felt a stab of real anger and began to plan all the things he’d do to Michael Heathcote when he finally tracked him down. He dumped his bag on the bed and sat. He foresaw a week of being harder than the mattress.

§ § §

Both he and Ben noted the number of similar cameras to the ones in their rooms all around the old house. Corridors, meetings rooms, living areas, all seemed to be covered. They always had their fallback of a quick few words in Danish but didn’t want to resort to this just yet. Although it was obvious to anyone who heard Nikolas speak that English wasn’t his first language, this wasn’t the case with Ben. Justin might speak Danish fluently, but it was unlikely. Their covers were shaky enough without adding unnecessary suspicion.

They hadn’t brought their usual bespoke tailored suits so Nikolas imagined Ben felt as naked and vulnerable as he did when they entered the large dining hall where the orientation meeting was being held. Neither Nigel nor Justin was poor, exactly, but they could certainly not afford the thousands of pounds Nikolas regularly spent on clothes for him and Ben. Dressed in smart but inexpensive jeans and shirts, name badges neatly pinned, they took their places at the back of the seating where they could observe the other men in front of them.

Nikolas didn’t appreciate how tense Ben was until he saw him rubbing his scar, his talisman. Nikolas nudged him and frowned.

The room was filling up, men being nervously polite, offering small smiles of hello to strangers, some obviously couples, some single. It drifted across Nikolas’s mind that if he were gay, and if he were in a gay relationship, and if that relationship were in crisis, this experience alone would save it without the counselling to follow. He’d endure a minute more of this exquisite embarrassment and then stand up, tell Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen anything he wanted to hear, make any promises he wanted him to make, and then just leave. Ben’s hand brushed his. He felt Ben tap his knuckles lightly, and smiled privately. It was uncanny sometimes how Ben could read his mind.

Finally all the seats were taken. Two men entered from a side door, carrying clipboards. The older of the two appeared to be modelling his look on the sort of actor who always played the lawyer or the priest on Saturday afternoon shows. He was in his very well preserved sixties with a shock of white hair, paternal, kindly. American, his accent immediately lent an air of credibility to the therapy process, to what was still so unfamiliar to the Englishmen present. Nikolas thought him a slick preacher, a snake-oil salesman, but that thought unfortunately took him off on a tangent, wondering what snake oil was, so he missed the rest of the welcoming address. He was shot back to earth when the younger man made everyone stand up and greet and introduce themselves to the men on either side of them.