Chapter Twelve
At the end of rehearsals, when the first live performance date was in sight, those participating rarely rushed to go home. Tommy had seen the effect countless times. Adrenaline, combined with excitement, had everyone buzzed. A little like when his school soccer team won a challenging game against another school.
But the gym needed clearing and to be made ready for the school day, so he and Shelly put their teacher’s hats on and instructed everyone to stop chatting and help put things away. After that, they decided to head to Tommy’s regular haunt on Wyndham Street, the café where he’d met Devon and Aaron the day before. Had the weather remained rough, they’d have phoned for taxis, but the rains had finally stopped, and even with the pavements steaming in the cloying humidity, they chose to walk.
“Your boy’s a star,” said Shelly as they strolled arm in arm down the hill towards the entertainment district. “Not only likeable, but he knows his way around a stage.”
“He’s not my boy—he’s the nephew of a friend—but I know what you mean,” he said. Ahead of them, Zane chatted to a small group, two boys and one girl around his age, occasionally laughing together.
“Is he into one of them?”
“No idea. He’s only just met them.”
“Only takes a minute. Young love. Melts the heart, doesn’t it?”
“You’re asking the wrong person.”
“Have you never been in love?”
“Does double chocolate cheesecake count?”
“Idiot.”
“Actually, I’d better contact Zane’s uncle. Let him know how things are going.”
Tommy held back a pace or two while typing a message to Mitchell.
Tommy: We’re done. Want to join us? Heading to Wyndham for a drink. I’m sure you could use a glass of vino by now .
He began to put his phone away, thinking Mitchell might be busy and unable to respond, but an incomprehensible message pinged onto his phone.
Mitchell: Hd drink whisker. At world
Mitchell: Worm
Mitchell: Work
Mitchell: Shut
Tommy: Are you okay ?
Reply bubbles popped up a couple times and stopped. Eventually, after standing and waiting for a response for a full minute, Tommy dialled the number. The phone rang continuously before Mitchell finally answered.
“S’okay. Mm fine.”
“Where are you, Mitchell?”
“Mm fine.”
“Mitchell.”
“Taxi stan’ near Kowloon fle-fle-ferry. But m-fine.”
“You don’t sound fine. Stay where you are. I’m coming to get you.”
“Is that Mitchell?” asked Zane, coming up as Tommy ended the call.
“Yes,” said Tommy.
“I texted him already. He told us to go on without him.”
“Sounds like he’s—uh—unwell. I’ll pick him up and take him home.”
“I can do that,” offered Zane, looking naturally concerned.
“No, Zane,” said Shelly, nodding at Tommy and holding Zane’s arm. “Let Tommy go. I’m sure your uncle would be mortified if you missed out on the fun because of him. Tommy’s got this.”
“Shelly’s right. I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably a stomach bug. He just needs medicine and rest. I’m sure it won’t take long. He did insist you stay and get to know the crew. Do you have money?”
“Yes,” said Zane, reaching a hand into his pocket. “I have Hong Kong dollars and my bank card.”
“Good for you. I suggest you also buy yourself dinner. I’ll take care of Mitchell. It’ll give me and him a chance to have a chat about you, okay?”
“Oh. Yeah. Cool.”
“You have my phone number, in case you need me. Can find your own way home?”
Zane rolled his eyes.
“Uncle Mitch—Mitchell—asked me the same thing. I’m nineteen, not nine. Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
Tommy looked down the hill and saw Shelly had already moved off, her phone clamped to her ear.
“No. Go and catch up with Shelly and the gang, before you lose them. You know you’ll only end up with a bad case of—what is it you called it the other day?”
“FOMO. Fear of missing out. Point taken. Cool.”
Before jumping in a cab, Tommy bought a bottle of mineral water from a convenience store. When he arrived at the ferry terminal, he walked to the taxi queue but found no sign of Mitchell. For a moment he wondered if he had already headed home, until he spotted the familiar figure bundled up and sitting alone on the stone steps leading down to the ferry terminal. When Tommy neared, he noticed Mitchell rocking gently backwards and forward.
“There you are,” said Tommy, trying not to sound worried.
“Here I am,” said Mitchell, his voice slow but not as slurred as earlier. “I’m a little drunk.”
“I thought you might be. The incoherent text messages were a giveaway,” said Tommy, pulling the water from his bag and unscrewing the top. “Here. Drink this.”
Mitchell reached a hand up unsteadily and took the bottle. Tommy noticed a damp patch on the front of Mitchell’s plaid shirt but said nothing. Mitchell took a few tentative mouthfuls before offering the bottle back.
“Keep it,” said Tommy. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
“Zane—?”
“Is fine. I said you weren’t feeling well. He’s out making new friends. Let’s worry about you.”
Tommy went to help Mitchell, who waved him off and managed to stand upright unassisted.
“I threw up a bit.” On his feet now, Mitchell peered down at his shirt. “A lot, actually. I’m sorry.”
“Probably for the best. You want to tell me what happened?”
“No.”
When Mitchell stumbled to his left, Tommy strode over to support him. With an arm around Mitchell’s waist, Tommy led them to a red taxi. When the back door opened automatically, Tommy explained to the driver in Cantonese that his friend had a touch of heatstroke but was otherwise fine. The explanation appeared to placate the driver, and after Mitchell gave his address in very passable and, thankfully, coherent Cantonese, they set off.
“You stink of whisky vomit,” Tommy murmured, fitting Mitchell’s seatbelt.
“Twenty-five-year-old Baxter malt whisky vomit, to be precise.”
“Didn’t take you for a whisky drinker.”
“I’m not. One glass of wine is usually my limit. And I’ve never had whisky in my life. But there it was. Even had my name on the bottle. So I decided what the hell.”
“And I’m predicting that by the morning you will vow never to touch another drop again.”
They sat in companionable silence as the driver negotiated the small roads rising to Mitchell’s block. Some streets zigzagged left and right, and Tommy peered anxiously at Mitchell several times. His face retained an unhealthy pallor, but he appeared to be composed.
“I’m sorry, Tommy,” said Mitchell.
“You said that already.”
“I owe you. Once again.”
Tommy turned to Mitchell.
“That list is mounting up in my favour. How about you swear off whisky on the wedding day?”
“That much I will gladly promise you.”
When the taxi stopped outside the small courtyard housing Mitchell’s apartment block, Tommy had a moment of recognition. But from many years before. Maybe he’d once gone home with a hook-up who lived there. The sex must have been good if he recognised the place by daylight. Most of his past shags began and ended during nightfall.
Seeing Mitchell struggle to pull money from his jeans pocket, Tommy paid the driver and helped Mitchell out of the taxi. When Mitchell finally punched in the door entry code and indicated the top-floor apartment, Tommy inwardly groaned but helped support Mitchell slowly up the narrow stone staircase. With both of them catching their breath outside, Tommy took the key from Mitchell and opened the door. After kicking their shoes off, Tommy used a hand to guide Mitchell inside. The space felt airy and cool, and for a moment Tommy wondered if Mitchell had left his air-conditioning running all day, but then he noticed the windows to the apartment stood in the shade of another block.
Mitchell had moved to the middle of his living room, looking dazed. Tommy drew level with him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Where’s your shower?”
Mitchell pointed to a door leading off the living room.
“And what about your washing machine?”
He indicated the same door.
“Excellent. First, pick out something clean to wear, then go to your shower room, dump those clothes into the machine, then have a long, cold shower.”
On his way to a different door, Mitchell emptied his pockets of wallet, lanyard, phone, a red postcard and a handful of coins onto the sofa before disappearing inside. Tommy took the opportunity to appraise the apartment. Somebody—the owner perhaps—had modernised the place beautifully. Even the air-conditioning in the living room was a modern split-level unit and barely made a sound. Decoratively, nothing stood out—neutral furnishings in either navy or grey. Even the rug beneath the gunmetal grey coffee table was a dusty oatmeal. Tommy realised the apartment was decorated the same way Mitchell dressed, purposefully understated.
Moments later Mitchell appeared from the bedroom, carrying a pair of track bottoms, a grey T-shirt and a white towel. Very slowly and gingerly, he paced towards what Tommy assumed to be the bathroom. After a few seconds Tommy heard the shower begin to run, water splashing into a basin, followed by gargling, perhaps Mitchell using mouthwash. Less than a minute later, still dressed, Michell returned to the main room. Tommy could see him struggling as he tried to unbutton his shirt, but his fingers refused to obey.
“Come over here, you big dork,” said Tommy, stepping into Mitchell’s space to assist. With his gaze lowered, concentrating on plucking at the buttons, he raised his eyes at one point into Mitchell’s beautiful brown eyes, the emotion behind them unfathomable.
“If you say sorry one more time—” began Tommy, which had Mitchell grinning.
“I was going to say thank you.”
Tommy finished unfastening the final button and nudged the shirt off Mitchell’s shoulders. Beneath he wore a white undershirt and, although swaying slightly, he managed to pluck that awkwardly off over his head, leaving him bare-chested and his hair in an untidy heap. Only the belt to his jeans appeared to be giving his fingers trouble, and after watching Mitchell try three times, Tommy huffed out a sigh and stepped back into his space, unfastening the belt for him.
“I could almost believe you’ve done this kind of thing before,” whispered Mitchell, his warm breath of mint tinged with whisky caressing Tommy’s ear. The remark caught Tommy off guard. The soft words were sensual and arousing, not something he would have expected from Mitchell.
Emboldened by the challenge, Tommy held Mitchell’s gaze while yanking the leather belt out from the jeans’ loops, which jolted the bigger man slightly to one side. Still maintaining eye contact, Tommy dropped the belt onto the floor and reached to unclasp the top metal stud of Mitchell’s jeans before unfastening the zipper. Colour had returned to Mitchell’s cheeks. His dark eyes were fully dilated with an attractive mix of desire and fear before he peered down at the space between them.
As Tommy went to grab the waistband of Mitchell’s jeans, Mitchell looked up, inadvertently brushing their lips. Instinct took over, and Tommy brought their mouths together, feeling Mitchell freeze for a split second before reciprocating hesitantly. Tommy could hear a distant voice in his head advising caution, a warning he chose to ignore. Instead, Tommy brushed his tongue against Mitchell’s teeth, tasting a sour minty flavour, but that single contact seemed to ignite something inside Mitchell, who took a shuddering breath before roughly pulling their bodies together, opening his mouth and deepening the kiss. In an instant, control passed from Tommy to Mitchell, a transition Tommy found surprising but a total turn-on. Apart from the strong arms holding him in place and the tongue exploring his mouth, he could feel a hardness poking into his upper thigh.
A little roughly, Tommy yanked Mitchell’s jeans down his thighs, then leant away and drank in Mitchell’s body. Mitchell’s build was what Devon labelled solid-framed, not overweight in any way, but big boned. His friend preferred his men not gym-toned but mature and naturally muscular. On this occasion, Tommy could see his point. Did Mitchell purposely dress down to hide his attractiveness? Because, beyond any doubt, Mitchell had a nicely proportioned body. Broad shoulders and thick forearms covered in the same dark pelt that covered his defined chest and coated his pectorals, the trail tapering down towards the noticeable bulge.
But in that moment, cold common sense kicked in. What the hell was he thinking? If they took things any further, wouldn’t they risk ruining everything? And an ambient sound he had barely acknowledged finally demanded his attention—the shower water was still running. He looked up into Mitchell’s eyes, seeing arousal clouded by a mix of fear and hesitation.
“Boxers,” said Tommy, glancing down and trying to make light of the situation. “Tartan fucking boxers?”
Mitchell smiled, clearly relieved, and followed Tommy’s gaze.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Who dresses you? Your mother?”
“They’re comfortable.”
“They’d have to be. Why else would you wear them?”
“Now who’s being rude? They’re good in this humidity. And some people like boxers.”
“The Kennel Club?”
Mitchell looked puzzled for a second before catching on to Tommy’s canine reference and laughing. The joke succeeded in breaking the tension between them.
“I’m sorry,” said Tommy. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It’s—it’s okay. I didn’t exactly put up any resistance.”
“But I think it’s best if we don’t—”
“Of course. No, of course. We should keep this thing between us professional.”
“Go and shower,” said Tommy. “Before I relent and do something we both regret.”
Mitchell didn’t move for a moment, staring at Tommy, and for a second he thought Mitchell might be bold enough to take the initiative. And Tommy’s resolve, which had never been steadfast, would have evaporated. After all, how often of late did he have a half naked, aroused and bluntly attractive man standing in front of him. Tommy could worry about the consequences later. But Mitchell, the gentleman, could not. Instead he smiled sadly, shook his head and headed into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
“You are going to have one dreadful hangover in the morning,” called Tommy, above the sound of the shower water and having no idea whether Mitchell could hear him. “Take it from one who knows.”
For a moment, he considered quietly making his escape. Mitchell would understand. The more time he spent in Mitchell’s presence, the closer he came to overstepping the boundaries of their friendship. But even in the short time they’d known each other, Tommy knew something had rattled Mitchell badly today. Maybe he just needed company and someone to listen.
Heading to Mitchell’s kitchen, Tommy stopped at the sofa to reach down and pick up the red card with the Chinese characters that Mitchell had discarded. Tommy had seen similar slogans in his time, sometimes created on scrolls with auspicious sayings gifted to friends and family on special occasions. Some were hard to translate into English, but this one he knew well. Four words. Adversity. Come. Follow. Receive . When adversity comes along, receive it favourably. Or maybe a better translation would be to accept hardship with grace. But why would someone have sent Mitchell that particular idiom? Did they know he was going through a rough patch?
The kitchen had been modernised with black floor tiles, plush grey kitchen units, a large multifunctional microwave and a large, expensive-looking fridge in stainless steel. After filling and switching on the white jug kettle, he noticed other red cards stuck to the fridge door.
Opening cupboard after cupboard to orderly piles of chinaware and glasses, Tommy eventually found large mugs in shades of grey and smiled when he discovered a collection of teas, including a dusty glass jar of loose-leaf chrysanthemum. His grandmother swore the flower had medicinal qualities for those who had overindulged in spirits, Chinese wine or other potent alcoholic drinks. He remembered her telling him that finishing four full cups before bed would help lessen or even avoid a nasty headache and upset stomach in the morning. A cafetière sat drying on the draining board, so Tommy used that to brew the tea before bringing everything on a tray into the living room.
Mitchell eventually appeared, towel drying his wild mop of dark hair. At first glance he looked better, typically untrendy but comfortable in his baggy casuals. Only when he glanced over at the tea and mugs did Tommy notice his bloodshot eyes.
“How are you feeling?”
“Marginally better. Do you want to get back to your friends?”
“No, but I’ll head off soon," said Tommy. "By the way, Zane wanted me to ask you if it’s okay for him to attend rehearsals and hang out with members the theatre group.”
“For heaven’s sake. Of course it’s fine. It was our idea.”
“I know, but I couldn’t tell him that. I think he needs to hear the words from you at some point.”
“Lord knows what he’s telling his mother—my sister. She’s bound to call him today.”
“Don’t sweat it. I told him you probably had an upset stomach. Here. Drink this tea,” said Tommy, holding up one of the mugs of freshly poured tea. “My grandmother swears by it to minimise hangovers.”
Mitchell took the mug and sniffed the steam appreciatively before taking a sip.
“Do you know what this means?” asked Tommy, holding up the red card he had found on the settee.
“That one? No idea. My landlady keeps sending them to me.”
“It’s an older generation thing, little idioms, something my grandmother likes to send. Bumper sticker philosophy. This one translates as accepting hardship with grace.”
Mitchell snorted sadly. “Yes, that sound about right.”
Tommy put his mug down.
“Okay, Mitchell Baxter. Are you going to tell me what happened today?”
Mitchell heaved out a sigh and sat down heavily in a chair opposite.
“What do you need to know? I polished off an almost-full bottle of whisky—”
“And vomited. Yes, I know all that. My question was more around why .”
Mitchell stared out of the window.
“It’s a work thing.”
“And you can’t talk about it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“But it’s bad enough to warrant you polishing off a bottle of spirits and clearly involves tough decisions somebody’s making that you’re just going to have to swallow.”
Mitchell swung his gaze back to Tommy, clearly surprised at the words.
“How would you know that?”
Tommy held up the red card. “Because you just said so.”
“Look, Tommy, I’m legally forbidden from talking to anybody about what’s going on. But let’s just say that I have a feeling that my days of living in Hong Kong are numbered.”
An unexpected twinge pinched at Tommy’s chest, the thought of losing a friend perhaps, or of something being unresolved.
“I understand.”
“The irony is that in HR, we’re constantly preaching to our workforce about embracing change, adapting and keeping up with the constantly shifting demands and needs of the business. But deep down, it’s me who’s uncomfortable with change. Don’t worry. I still promise to be your plus-one for the wedding.”
Tommy’s phone interrupted them, pinging in his pocket. He read the message and held the phone up to let Mitchell see the words.
Zane: Can you remind Mitchell about the theatre junk trip next Saturday. The dress code is anything nautical. I’ll need to buy fancy dress .
“Looks like we’re on a junk trip next Saturday.”
“We?”
“If I’m going—and I have no choice as one of the organisers—then so are you, Mitchell. Visibility, remember? And you need to be there to support your nephew.”
“Oh, heavens. It never ends, does it?”
“You have no idea. But you said your nephew should socialise more.”
“Nautical?” said Mitchell. “What the hell am I supposed to wear?”
“Don’t worry,” said Tommy, smiling. “I’m sure Zane will come up with something fitting.”