Bare

Chapter 16

PARTNERS

The scones were good. Diane’s best, buttermilk, served warm. Nobody mentioned the tears. Nobody mentioned the hand. The six inches had closed and that was enough; some things settle when you name them.

Tea. The kitchen clock. Malcolm’s hands back around his mug, occupied again.

At the door, Diane straightened his collar. The automatic gesture. Old.

‘Bring him,’ she said. ‘When you’re ready. Bring Rory.’

She held his eyes.

‘Bring Rory.’ The name said properly. ‘I’ll make lunch.’

Spring light on the drive home. Longer now, warmer, the kind that showed things clearly.

His phone vibrated at a traffic light. Rory: _How did it go?_

_Dad cried._

Three dots. Then: _Malcolm Ashworth cried?_

_He reached for my hand and couldn’t make it. I closed the gap._

A long pause. Then: _That’s the bravest thing you’ve done yet._

Neil looked at the message. The light turned green.

_Come for dinner. Tonight. My flat. You, me, Freddie._

Immediate: _I’ll bring the dessert._

‘It’s become a thing,’ Sue said. Staff room. Monday. She was eating a hobnob with earned concentration. ‘An actual, verifiable thing. The mural. The cross-curricular collaboration. The art-meets-English. Webb’s using it on the website.’

‘Webb’s using everything on the website.’

‘Webb’s using it as evidence of innovative practice. Those are her words. She used them in a sentence. Unprompted.’

‘I’ll alert the media.’

‘The media have been alerted. There’s a photographer coming Thursday.’ Sue looked at him. The look she’d been giving him since September, the one that saw more than it said. ‘You and Cavanaugh. Side by side. For the photo.’

‘It’s a mural photo, Sue. Not a portrait.’

‘It’s a photo of two colleagues who built something. Together.’ She bit the hobnob. ‘You look good together. I’m just observing.’

‘You observe a lot.’

‘I teach statistics. Pattern recognition is my whole career.’

She walked away. Neil stood by the counter with his flat white, the takeaway cup with his name on it in Rory’s biro.

Rory had stopped asking if he wanted one and had started bringing one every morning.

The transition from quiet gift to daily arrangement had happened without either of them planning it.

Gemma’s tea happened on a Sunday in mid-March.

Rory arrived at Gemma’s door with wine and restless. Neil had driven. Freddie was in the back seat providing a running commentary on orca hunting strategies.

‘Rory. Do orcas have enemies?’

‘Humans.’

‘Besides humans.’

‘Not really. They’re apex predators.’

‘What’s an apex predator?’

‘Top of the food chain. Nothing eats them.’

‘Like Dad with biscuits.’

‘Exactly like your dad with biscuits.’

Gemma opened the door. Owen behind her, beer in hand. Roast chicken and a home where people were expected and wanted.

‘Come in,’ Gemma said. ‘Before he loses his nerve.’ Glancing at Neil.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re sweating.’

‘It’s March.’

‘It’s twelve degrees. You’re sweating because you’re bringing your partner to your ex-wife’s house for Sunday lunch. Sweat is the appropriate response.’

Rory laughed. Gemma skipped the hand this time and pulled him straight into a hug, brief, firm. Decision made.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘The chicken needs forty minutes. Owen’s opening wine. Neil’s going to sit down and stop looking like he’s about to give evidence at an inquest. And Freddie’s going to show you his room here.’

Inside. Neil paused on the step. His son’s voice and his partner’s voice and his ex-wife’s voice all coming from the same room. He walked in.

The lunch was good. Gemma’s chicken, perfect, because Gemma approached cooking with the same controlled excellence she brought to everything.

Roast potatoes that crisped. Gravy from scratch.

The table set for five, plus a high chair for Freddie’s stuffed dragon, which Freddie insisted was dining with them and which required its own plate.

Owen and Rory found each other within ten minutes. A shared interest in woodworking, Owen had built the kitchen shelves, Rory built his own canvas stretchers, that led to a conversation about dovetail joints so detailed that Gemma caught Neil’s eye across the table and mouthed: _Kill me._

But it was good. Owen talking with his hands, Rory leaning forward with elbows on the table, not performing, not the art teacher or the painter, just a man talking about tools over a Sunday roast.

Freddie sat between Rory and Neil. He’d stopped using Mr Cavanaugh entirely. The transition had been seamless, one morning it was the surname, the next it was Rory, like the child had updated his files and moved on.

‘Rory, do you know what a dovetail is?’

‘Yeah, mate. It’s a joint. Two pieces of wood that fit together like a puzzle.’

‘Why’s it called dovetail?’

‘Because the shape looks like a dove’s tail. The feathers fanning out.’

‘Have you seen a real dove’s tail?’

‘Not up close.’

‘I have. In the garden. It’s grey. With white bits.’ Freddie chewed a potato. ‘Woodwork and birdwatching. You and Owen should start a club.’

‘A dovetail and birdwatching club.’

‘I’d join.’

‘You’re six.’

‘Age is just a number, Rory.’

‘Where does he get this?’ Rory asked Neil.

‘Gemma.’

‘Obviously.’

After lunch, Gemma and Neil in the kitchen. Washing up. The old choreography, he washed, she dried. Through the window: Rory had picked Freddie up and was holding him upside down while Freddie screamed with delight and Owen stood by with his hands out in case of disaster.

‘He’s good,’ Gemma said, not asking.

‘He’s good.’

‘He’s also terrified.’

‘He’s hiding it well.’

‘He’s hiding it like you do. By being extremely competent and hoping nobody notices the panic underneath.

’ She dried a plate. ‘I like him, Neil. Properly. Partly because he makes you happy, visibly, embarrassingly. But mostly because he’s honest. He looks at you and he doesn’t pretend he’s not looking. ’

‘He’s a painter. Looking is what he does.’

‘It’s more than looking. He pays attention. To you. Like you’re... I don’t know. Worth getting right.’

Neil scrubbed a pot. The window above the sink framed the garden, Owen passing the ball, Rory in goal, Freddie running with focus, as though the outcome of this game would determine the fate of nations.

‘Gemma.’

‘Mm.’

‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘For saying the word. Four years ago. In the kitchen. When I couldn’t.’

She stopped drying. Held the plate.

‘Someone had to,’ she said. Quiet. ‘You were never going to say it yourself. I could see that. So I said it.’ She dried the plate. ‘I’ve always been the braver one.’

‘You have.’

‘I’m also the one with better taste in chicken seasoning.’

‘That’s also true.’

She put the plate down. Touched his arm. Brief.

‘He’s right for you,’ she said. ‘The first person who’s ever been right for you. Don’t mess it up.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Try harder.’

That night. Rory’s flat. Music low.

They were on the sofa. Wine. Leaving Freddie at Gemma’s for the rest of the weekend. Neil had driven here because he wanted to, not because the schedule permitted it.

‘You’re looking at me,’ Rory said. From the other end of the sofa.

‘I’m looking at you.’

‘You’re looking at me differently.’

‘How?’

‘Like you’ve decided something.’

Neil put his wine down. Stood. Crossed the sofa. Took Rory’s wine and set it on the table. Then he straddled his lap, knees either side of Rory’s thighs, hands on his shoulders, and kissed him.

His thigh muscles braced against the sofa cushions. Rory’s quads hard under him, tensing with surprise. The height advantage, looking down at Rory, his face tilted up, changed something fundamental. Every previous encounter had been Rory leading or mutual. Tonight, Neil’s hands.

Rory made a sound of surprise against his mouth.

‘Shut up.’ Fond, not harsh.

Rory’s hands found Neil’s hips. Reflex. The instinct to guide, to steer. He gripped harder, pulled Neil’s hip forward, trying to set the pace.

Neil caught his right wrist. Brought it down to the cushion beside Rory’s thigh. Held it there.

Rory’s breath caught. His wrist flexed against Neil’s grip.

A beat where he wasn’t sure. Where the loss of control wasn’t pleasure yet. Just loss.

‘Tell me if you want me to stop,’ Neil said. Low.

‘Don’t stop, Neil. I want this.’

Then the flex stopped. His fingers opened.

Button by button. The shirt off the shoulders, down the arms. The T-shirt over his head.

Neil’s mouth on the nipple ring, the exact pressure he’d learned draws the hiss.

He got the hiss. Down. Stomach. The trail of hair beneath his tongue.

He released the wrists to work Rory’s belt, the buckle stiff, brass tongue that required both hands.

The jeans open. He pulled them down, Rory lifted his hips. The boxers followed. Neil slid off his lap. Knelt between Rory’s legs. The sofa cushion rough under his knees.

His mouth on Rory’s cock. The weight of it on his tongue, the salt-skin taste he’d learnt to crave. Rory’s hand in his hair. Not pushing. Gripping. The fingers tightening every time Neil took him deeper.

Rory’s breathing went uneven. His stomach muscles locked. His thighs trembling against Neil’s shoulders. Close.

Then Rory’s hand pulled him off. Firm. A fist in his hair that drew his head up.

Neil looked at him. Mouth wet. ‘What...’

‘Stop.’ Rory’s voice was wrecked. His cock flushed dark, spit-slick, twitching against his stomach. He was breathing through his teeth. ‘I don’t want to come yet.’

‘You were about to.’

‘I know.’ Rory sat forward. His hand moved from Neil’s hair to the side of his face. Thumb across his bottom lip, wiping the spit. His eyes were blown. ‘I want to fuck you. If you want that.’

Neil’s stomach contracted.

He’d thought about it. Lying in his own bed, hand on himself, Rory’s body above and behind. He’d thought about it in the shower. In the car. During a Year 9 comprehension exercise on a Tuesday afternoon in February, which was the most inappropriate time and the time his body had chosen anyway.