Chapter 9 #4
Inside, the Cock and Feather was – as Sonia once described it to me – an old man pub.
A few fruit machines in the corner, some sport on the flatscreen above the bar.
An upmarket gastropub it was not, a friendly village local it was neither.
It was decidedly middle of the road. The kind of pub I’d grown up in.
“This is the cheapest place in Sittingston to get accommodation,” Errol said in an almost apologetic tone.
“Don’t worry, not judging the surrounds. I’ll grab a table.”
A minute later, after the surly barmaid had been thoroughly won over by Errol’s charm (or his arse in the tight suit trousers he was wearing), he came over to the table I’d nabbed in the corner with two pints and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.
“So,” he said, settling himself on a stool. “Would you like to talk about the article, or would you like to talk about literally anything else?”
“The latter, please.” I tipped my beer at him. “Cheers, by the way.”
“Cheers.” He took a sip of his own. “What can we discuss instead? Oh, I know. You can tell me about all the hot nightlife in Sittingston. Or is Lilbury where the real late-night action happens?”
I snorted. “Late-night action? Everyone goes to bed at nine thirty.”
“They don’t even stay up to watch Newsnight?” he said aghast. “But I thought posh white people fucking loved Newsnight.”
“Oh, no, darling. They only watch that liberal propaganda in Islington.”
“So it’s endless Countryfile and Radio 4, then?”
I nodded. “There is literally an Archers fan club in the village. They meet in the Tea Rooms on Thursdays.”
Errol’s face went still. “You’re … you’re joking, right?”
Shaking my head, I said, “White people don’t joke about The Archers, Errol. We take it very seriously.”
His face was a picture, whether he was playing it up, I didn’t know nor care because I needed a laugh.
He grinned at me. “You’re much better looking when you laugh. Not that it’s an unattractive view when you’re serious, but your eyes light up when you laugh.”
I blushed so hard I’m surprised I lived to tell the tale.
He leaned forward on his elbows. “I must admit, I rescued you from the reporters with not … completely innocent aims. I thought I’d grab you and take you for a drink and see if I could have my wicked way with you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Really?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been in this place for a month. A guy has needs, and the only offer I’ve had on Grindr is this couple called Leon and Levi asking for a third. And I had the distinct feeling they were a bit too into Black guys.”
“I know them,” I said. It was Errol’s turn to roll his eyes.
“Of course you do.”
“They helped remodel my kitchen.”
His eyes nearly rolled out of his head.
“Does that happen a lot, by the way?” I asked.
He frowned and cocked his head, wanting me to elaborate.
“You know, white guys just wanting a Black guy and not really caring about the type of man the appendage is attached to?”
“You’re thinking about my appendage?”
“How could I not when you’re in those trousers?”
He gripped the fabric and pulled at it. “What? These are my baggiest ones.” He grinned.
“To answer your question, yes, and sometimes it gets very frustrating. I’ll chat to a nice guy and think, wow, this is a proper connection, and then he’ll have a few more drinks and start saying he wants me to put on a gold chain and backwards cap and just ruin him. ”
I gave a mock pout. “That must be really hard. Guys offering you sex without even bothering to talk to you.”
He laughed. “What about you? Do you rely on stereotypes for your sex life?”
“I’m Polish, so yeah, we’re hung like carthorses. If some guy happens to think he’s getting more bang for his buck, I’m not gonna stop him.”
“Oh, I know the stereotypes of Polish men. I used to live in west London before I came home to Brizzle. You couldn’t move for Slavic builders sending pictures of their footlong subway sandwiches to you on Grindr.”
“Ah, well, when I was young, I lived in east London, so I had a fair amount of Jamaican meat in my diet.”
He took a swig of his pint. “Racist. I’m Antiguan.”
I shrugged. “I’m one-eighth Slovakian.”
“What’s the deal with you and Simon?” Errol grinned as I choked on my pint. “Gotcha.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to stop hacking up cheap lager.
“He couldn’t take his eyes off you at the hustings last week. All week, he’s been talking to Frobisher about you. This evening, he raced after you when you left. If I was a nosey parker—”
“It seems you are.”
“—I’d swear Riz was seething with jealousy. So, what is it between you two?”
I frowned. “There’s nothing.”
Errol gave me a look that said he didn’t believe me.
“We shagged a few months ago. When he and Riz were broken up. I had no idea about the guy. It was one night. Since then, Simon has been a dick to me. We’ve literally not spoken.”
Errol nodded as he took this in. Over his shoulder, the barmaid yelled for last orders for the night. I hadn’t realised it had got so late. “Then there’s no one at home pining for you?”
I thought of Ollie. “Nope,” I said.
“So, would you like to finish these and come up to my room and have some fun?”
I grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.”