Chapter 40
Hunter
It’s a sign of how much else has been going on that I completely forgot that our visa hadn’t yet been approved.
When the doorbell rings, I assume it’s a delivery driver.
I see the man and don’t recognize him. Then I take in the woman, her stern haircut and impassive expression, and it all comes flooding back.
‘Hello, Hunter,’ says Janet. ‘May we come in?’
I freeze, my heart in my mouth.
‘Er, can I ask why?’
‘We just have a few follow-up questions.’
My palms start to sweat. I keep them clamped to my sides. ‘Am I allowed to say no?’
Janet is surprised. ‘Legally, yes. But we may then be obliged to seek a warrant.’
Jesus Christ. Now I’m imagining a SWAT team busting in, bundling me into a van and shipping me back to America. Let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be.
‘Please,’ I say to them. ‘Come in.’
‘Is Max home?’ asks Janet.
‘No, he’s at work.’
‘Could you get him home?’
‘I can ask.’
I show them into the living room and run to the bathroom.
I fire off a text to Max, then splash my face with cold water.
Wait, does that look guilty? Too late now.
When I get back to the living room, Malcolm is flicking through a copy of Acting for Dummies with immense interest while Janet peruses the various oil paintings on the wall as if she’s trying to spot a fake.
‘Max should be here soon,’ I inform them. ‘Please, have a seat.’
We perch opposite each other, and Janet offers me an icy smile. ‘Now then, tell us – how’s orthodontist school going?’
For the next twenty minutes, I break all my rules.
There’s no way I’m sitting here and answering Janet’s questions until Max gets home, so I start recounting every one of Doily’s anecdotes that I can recall, from the time she got into an argument with Maggie Smith in Fortnum and Mason over the last remaining quince jelly, to the day that Bill Nighy rescued her Mulberry handbag from a motorbike thief by beating the guy with his umbrella.
Janet isn’t interested, but Malcolm laps it up.
All that matters is preventing Janet from interrogating me.
It’s not that I don’t think I can come up with answers – I just don’t want to say anything that Max contradicts once he walks in.
Finally I hear the door open. ‘Max!’ I cry, leaping up and planting a kiss on his cheek.
Max takes in our guests. He looks like he prepared himself on the way.
‘Lovely to see you again!’ says Malcolm. ‘This is my colleague, Janet.’
Janet peers at him. ‘Hello, Max. This won’t take long.’
Max stays standing. The air of forced conviviality over the past twenty minutes has given way to an unmistakable chill.
‘Sorry,’ says Max. ‘What are you here for?’
‘Standard procedure,’ says Malcolm.
Janet purses her lips. ‘It was Malcolm who initially collated your answers. After being reviewed, they were found to have a couple of discrepancies that Malcolm had thought fine to ignore.’
‘Very minor discrepancies,’ says Malcolm, flustered. ‘Nothing that prompted any serious concern.’
‘Still,’ says Janet, ‘it was felt that a home visit would tie up any loose ends.’
I shoot a look at Max. This is exactly what I was worried about. He promised me it would be fine, but look at us now. Although for some reason, Max doesn’t seem anxious.
‘No problem,’ he says. ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’
Janet shares a look with Malcolm, then turns to Max. ‘How about a bite to eat?’
‘Oh,’ says Max in surprise. ‘Have you not had lunch?’
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘but you told Malcolm you like to cook for Hunter. Something Hunter made no mention of.’
Damn. Damn, damn, damn.
‘It must have slipped his mind,’ says Max.
‘Not very memorable, your cooking, is it?’ asks Janet.
‘It certainly is. Nobody forgets my pancakes.’
‘Come on then,’ she says. ‘Let’s see what you can do.’
My heart is pounding out of my chest. What the hell is Max going to do? This cannot be legal. They can’t deny us a visa because he’s a terrible cook. Can they? Or will they use it as evidence that he lied? Is this all they need to fail us?
As we head over to the kitchen, I’m terrified to witness Max in action, but he produces the ingredients, pulls out a whisk, sifts the flour, and cracks each egg one handed.
He whisks as he drizzles in the milk, smooth as anything, chatting to Janet and Malcolm about how he prefers to use full fat to add that bit of extra depth.
Janet is taken aback, and I have to say, I’m with her.
How the hell is he doing this?
Once the pan is hot, Max adds butter with a sizzle, then tilts it to coat the pan.
He pours in a ladle of batter, spreads it paper-thin around the pan, then flips it.
As I watch the pancake fly through the air, it feels like time slows down and our fate is hanging in the balance, but the pancake lands perfectly.
Max slides it onto a plate. He prepares two more in quick succession, then places the pancakes on the table in front of us alongside some Nutella and maple syrup.
‘Bon appetit,’ Max says with a flourish.
Malcolm digs in, smacking his lips. Janet is too livid to say anything. I have no idea how Max has transformed himself from kitchen amateur to husband material star chef, but I’m in awe. I offer him a grateful smile, and he grins back at me.
‘Scrummy,’ says Malcolm. ‘I think we can put a nice big tick in that box.’
‘You do that,’ says Janet, before turning to me. ‘Now then,’ she says, ‘let’s see some of this rare pottery that you and Max like to acquire.’
Just when I thought we were safe.
Why did I say that? Rare pottery?
My chest tightens as Malcolm’s brow lifts expectantly.
I glance at the mantelpiece. Elton John’s gnome stares back at me like it knows the game is up.
No way. Admitting to theft is not an option.
My eyes dart frantically around the room, but this flat is practically minimalist compared to Doily’s trinket museum.
I curse myself for clearing out her bizarre ornaments.
‘This way,’ Max says, calm as anything.
What the fuck? How has he got this covered too?
I frown at him, but he gives me the smallest nod.
I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I follow.
Right now, Max is all I’ve got. He leads us down the hall to the spare room and opens the door.
Sitting on the windowsill, tucked in the corner, is a china figurine of a slightly cross-looking badger wearing a waistcoat and holding a teacup.
Janet’s lip curls. ‘What’s that?’
Max doesn’t hesitate. ‘That,’ he says, perfectly deadpan, ‘is an original Giles Wibberley.’ He leans in conspiratorially. ‘The Giles Wibberley.’
Something inside me sparks. Max isn’t spouting lies randomly.
He’s acting. Calm, prepared, and in character.
That’s all the cue I need to slip into performance mode, and suddenly, we’re off.
Max and I spin a story about how we drove down to an auction house in Sturminster Marshall and bid seven times our budget.
As Max tells them we named the badger Percy, I speak in Percy’s pompous tones, and Max scolds me for stealing his impression.
We finish each other’s sentences, laugh in the right places, back each other up like we’ve told this story a thousand times.
We’re lying through our teeth, but it doesn’t feel like lying. It feels like the kind of scene only the two of us could play: Max’s rapid-fire invention paired with my flair for delivery.
We’re a team. A real one. And Malcolm and Janet can’t miss that.
Janet purses her mouth. ‘Right, I think that’s everything.’
She can’t hide her disappointment. She hasn’t been able to lay a glove on us. She and Malcolm head for the door. Relief floods through me. They’re almost gone. We’ve done it. We’ve survived. Then the door to the main house creaks open.
Please don’t let that be who I think it is.
We really could do without Doily walking into this scene.
But here she is, clutching a pile of books, and wearing tangerine sunglasses and an electric pink headscarf that causes Malcolm to subconsciously genuflect as if he’s in the presence of a celebrity. Doily doesn’t even notice him.
‘There you are, boys,’ she says. ‘Sheila Hancock was clearing out her old books to make space for a loom. I found a couple you might like.’
She hands me a tattered copy of Favourite Jams of Lower Lincolnshire and Max a pristine edition of Julian Clary’s memoir A Young Man’s Passage.
‘Thank you,’ I say, attempting to usher Janet and Malcolm out of the room.
‘I do beg your pardon,’ says Doily. ‘Do you have guests?’
‘This is Janet and Malcolm,’ I say. ‘From the immigration office.’
Doily catches on immediately. ‘Lovely.’
‘So you’re the landlord?’ asks Janet.
‘Precisely.’
‘Do you have a copy of the tenancy agreement?’
Doily had to be more or less bullied into making my residence in her home official, but thankfully we convinced her it might be necessary, and it turns out we were right.
‘I do,’ says Doily. ‘Follow me.’
Doily heads over to her office with Janet and Malcolm. As soon as they are out of earshot, I turn to Max.
‘What the hell? How did you make those pancakes?’
Max smiles coyly. ‘Didn’t I tell you we’d be OK if they ever checked up on us?’
I nod, still in disbelief.
‘I didn’t think they ever would,’ says Max, ‘but I knew you were worried about it. So I planned for the worst-case scenario. The pottery was easy. The pancakes took longer. I’ve been doing YouTube tutorials every night I’ve been home alone.’
I stare at him. ‘Wait, are you saying you learned to make pancakes in case you ever got tested?’
Max laughs. ‘Not exactly. I was just . . . trying to make the truth catch up with the lies. I never thought I’d be tested like that. But I thought it would be a nice surprise for you one day. Guess it was.’
My heart feels like it’s going to burst. This is just about the most considerate thing anyone has ever done for me. Before I can say any more, Doily, Janet and Malcolm return. Janet is clutching a bunch of documents.
‘Got the paperwork?’ Max asks Janet.
‘Yes,’ she says tartly. ‘That’s everything.’
I have never seen a woman look so defeated.
It’s hard not to take it personally. To be fair to Janet, maybe she could tell when she met us that something was off.
But a lot has happened since then. As we see them out and Doily heads back to her part of the house, I turn to Max with a gulp of relief.
We dissolve into an embrace, long and tender. I didn’t realize until now how much I needed it. Eventually, we pull back.
‘Hunter,’ says Max. ‘We need to talk.’
It’s painful to even look each other in the eye, but we both know we can’t avoid this any longer. I take a seat at the kitchen table. Max sits opposite me.
‘You know what I’m like,’ says Max. ‘I talk around the subject. Find a way to spin it that will keep everyone happy. But in this situation, there’s no way round it.’
Max holds my gaze determinedly. ‘I have feelings for you. Serious ones.’
I can’t help smiling. ‘You’re making it sound like a medical diagnosis. Maybe try spinning it a bit.’
Max blushes. ‘Fine. How’s this? There are times when you walk into the room and I think I’m going to faint at how beautiful you are.’
‘That’s better,’ I say with a grin. ‘Keep going.’
‘It’s not just about that,’ Max says. ‘I wish it was. This would be so much easier to handle if it was purely physical. You have a beautiful soul, Hunter. You see the world in a way no one else does, and you’re brave enough to say what you see.
You’re honest with me like no one ever has been.
You open my mind, challenge me, make me question myself.
You make my whole world burn more brightly.
And I think . . . I think I do the same for you.
I keep you laughing, keep you from spiralling into your worst anxieties.
We make each other better, Hunter. And I know for a fact you make Mr Peanut better. Look how attached he’s become to you.’
I can’t describe what hearing these words does to me.
At first, my heart leaps, buoyed by the sheer, dizzying joy of how Max feels about me.
But almost instantly, the joy twists into something sharper.
My chest tightens as reality creeps in: we’re caught in this impossible tangle of timing and distance.
Max looks at me. ‘How was that?’
I frown. ‘I wish you hadn’t.’
Max’s smile fades. ‘Why?’
‘Why do you think?’
His face is lined with worry. ‘Because you don’t feel the same way?’
‘No, Max! Because I do.’
It’s hard enough to be on the receiving end. But seeing him react to it is even worse. That brief burst of delight, followed by the immediate knowledge that we can’t enjoy it.
‘I want us to be together,’ I say. ‘I’m not saying I want to commit my life to you or do anything crazy like get married—’
Max can’t resist letting out a laugh.
‘But I want to give our story a chance to continue.’
Max nods soberly. He knows precisely how much this hurts.
‘Right now,’ I say, ‘we’re both on the verge of getting things we’ve always dreamed about. I want that for both of us. In some ways, I want it more for you than I do for me.’
‘Same,’ Max says despairingly.
‘Damn you,’ I say. ‘Why can’t you be a selfish asshole like my ex? It would make this so much easier.’
Max looks guilty. ‘Sorry.’
My heart floods with affection. ‘Max, you have nothing to be sorry for.’
I can’t bear to see him so crushed. Not when he did such a beautiful job of helping me through my audition.
I take his hands in mine. ‘When we get to Athens, I need you to go for it. I’ll be mad if you don’t. Give it everything, like you made sure I did. Once we have the results . . . then we’ll figure out what to do.’