Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Matt stared at the line on the laptop screen.
British cinema repeatedly framed emotional restraint as masculine virtue.
He deleted virtue. Typed necessity. Deleted it.
Concentrate. Because any second now, the peace and quiet of this tranquil morning will be shattered.
He glanced towards the window. The early morning sunlight had already touched the tops of the trees and was slowly making its way over the garden, transforming the lawn into something much greener and more vibrant. It sparkled on the pool’s surface, tiny diamond points of dancing light.
Fuck.
The siren call of outdoors grew too loud to ignore.
Matt poured himself another coffee, closed the laptop, and opened the patio door leading to the garden. He took his phone with him, already mentally going through Eric’s typical work day routine.
When he got to the pool, he sat in a chair and typed.
Are you up yet?
About a minute later, the green call icon started bouncing, and he smiled as he clicked on it.
Eric appeared on the screen wearing a shirt and tie and holding a mug.
Matt grinned. “Don’t you look all respectable? Mr. Estate Agent. Gotta look the part, right?”
Eric rolled his eyes in response. He snorted. “A glorified key-holder, that’s what I am.” He smirked. “Well, look who’s finally remembered I exist.”
“I saw you a little over a week ago.”
“Eight days.”
“You counted?”
Another eye roll. “In this job, counting days between interesting conversations is practically a hobby.”
Matt laughed. “How’s glamorous Stirling?”
Eric pulled a face. “The castle’s still there. The tourists are still here. Mrs McIntyre still thinks her two-bedroom bungalow is worth half a million.”
“No change, then.”
“Pretty much.” Eric leaned closer to the camera. “Where are you?” Matt flipped the camera to reveal the pool. “Ooh, nice.” When Matt flipped it back, Eric cocked his head. “How’s dissertation hell?”
He grimaced. “I’ve reached the stage where I can’t tell whether I’m writing something insightful or complete bollocks.”
“What chapter are you on?”
“‘The reconstruction of masculinity in post-war British cinema.’”
Eric blinked. “You know, I ask every time, hoping one day you’ll say something normal.”
“It is normal.”
“No, Matt. Normal is ‘I’m writing about castles.’”
Matt grinned. “Been there, done that. I even have the T-shirt, as Dad would say.”
They both laughed.
“Are you missing Edinburgh?”
Matt smiled. “Every day.”
“Even the lectures?”
“Some of them.”
Eric snorted. “Liar.”
“Okay… not the eight a.m. medieval history ones.”
“Or Dr MacLeod reading directly from his notes.”
Matt laughed. “I still maintain he could’ve replaced himself with a recording and nobody would’ve noticed.”
“Do you remember when we first became friends?”
Matt frowned. “First year?”
“Freshers’ Fair.”
“Really?” Almost six years ago.
Eric nodded. “Everyone else was queuing for the nightclub society.”
Matt laughed. “And you were standing at the Historical Society stall asking whether they organised trips to castles.”
“And they did!” Eric shook his head. “Remember everyone in first year trying to outdo each other with stories from Saturday night?”
Matt groaned. “How could I forget?”
“And you and I were discussing whether Richard III deserved his reputation.”
He chuckled. “Just your average, totally normal nineteen-year-old conversation.”
Eric smiled. “We were always the odd pair.”
“How do you mean?”
“Everyone else wanted nights out. You wanted museums.”
Matt shrugged. “Museums don’t give you hangovers.”
Eric drank from his mug. “You know what I miss?”
“What?”
“Those pub quizzes we used to go to.”
Matt smiled. “You only miss them because I knew the answers.”
“I miss them because you knew the answers nobody should know.”
“I studied History.”
“You remembered who won the Best Picture Oscar in 1952.” He paused. “How’s being back home? Should I be concerned that you’re calling me from the garden? Are things that bad in the house?”
Matt chuckled. “No, things are good. Better than good, actually. I’ve found myself a job for the summer. Well… strictly speaking, Dad found it for me.”
“I dread to ask. He isn’t dragging you into the city, is he? That’d kill you.”
The fact Eric knew that was further proof Matt had made himself one damn good friend.
“They’ve acquired a neighbour. Turns out, it’s Dad’s best mate from uni. And this mate needed someone to take care of the pool and garden.” He pointed to his own chest. “Voilà.”
“Does it need a lot of work?”
“Not that much. It’s more a case of redesigning it so it fits Owen.”
“What’s Owen like?”
Matt thought about it. “He’s… interesting.”
Eric arched his eyebrows. “That covers a lot of ground.”
He laughed. “Okay… he’s funny.”
“Older funny or actually funny?”
“Actually funny. And intelligent. Very intelligent. Not to mention kind.”
Eric looked at him. “You like him.”
Matt frowned. “I’ve known him two days.” Another shrug. “He’s good company.”
“Thank God. You spent the last six years surrounded by students whose idea of conversation began and ended with who they slept with.”
Matt groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
“It was relentless.” Eric mimicked male voices Matt recognised in a heartbeat. “‘Mate, you should’ve seen her…’ ‘Mate, you should’ve seen him…’”
They laughed.
Eric shook his head again. “I never understood why people treated sex like a competitive sport.”
Matt leaned back. “Neither did I.”
“Which was probably yet another reason why we became friends.”
He nodded. “You were the only person in our year who never made me feel weird.”
“Weird?”
“For… not joining in.”
Eric frowned. “I never thought you were weird.”
“I know. That’s why you stood out from those idiots from halls who used to rank every girl they met. Some of the girls were just as bad. I swear it was all they ever talked about. It exhausted me.”
Eric laughed. “Me too. Everyone permanently chasing their next shag.”
Matt snorted. “Meanwhile we were arguing over whether Zulu was better than A Bridge Too Far.”
He gave a wry smile. “We really were the odd ones out, weren’t we?”
Matt shrugged. “I never really thought about it. I just spent years always feeling as though I’d wandered into the wrong conversation. I never knew what to say to them.”
Eric nodded. “Because you weren’t interested.”
Another shrug. “I thought I was.”
“Whereas I spent years trying to convince myself I just hadn’t met the right woman.”
“And then you did.”
Eric grinned. “And he had a beard. The funny thing is, once I admitted I liked men, everything made sense.”
Matt stared into his coffee. “I wish I had one of those moments.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t spend my life wondering if I’m looking at the wrong sex.” He hesitated. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m looking for the wrong thing altogether.”
Eric was quiet.
“I’ve never met anyone who made me think God, I have to be with this person. I’ve had girlfriends. You know that.” Matt rubbed the back of his neck. “They were lovely. I liked them. I enjoyed spending time with them.”
“But?”
“But when things started heading towards sex…” He searched for the words. “It always felt like we’d skipped a few chapters.”
Eric studied him. “You weren’t attracted to them?”
“I don’t know if I wasn’t attracted to them, or whether I’ve just never been attracted to anyone enough.”
Silence stretched between them.
“Have you ever really wanted somebody?” Eric asked at last.
Matt thought about every girlfriend, every almost-kiss, every relationship that had quietly faded because he never seemed to want what came next.
“Not the way everyone else talks about it.” He frowned.
“People describe it like being hungry. Like it’s impossible to ignore.
” He let out a sigh. “So I started work on my master’s and stopped dating.
It wasn’t fair. The girls I met deserved somebody who couldn’t wait to get them into bed.
” He chuckled. “While I was happier discussing The Third Man.”
Eric laughed. “I don’t think that’s the sentence you think it is.”
Matt grinned.
“So how much gardening have you done so far?”
He related the trips to B&Q, IKEA, meeting Cyn… The Isle of Wight crept in at some point, along with old photographs and stories of what Owen and his dad got up to.
“Mate,” Eric interjected.
Matt stopped. “What?”
He grinned. “You haven’t mentioned the garden once.” Matt blinked, and Eric laughed. “You’ve spent five minutes talking about your boss.”
Matt opened his mouth then thought better of it.
Eric gave him a hard stare. “Promise me something.”
“What?”
“If this Owen turns out to be as interesting as you think he is, don’t spend the whole summer hiding behind your dissertation.”
“I’ll try.”
“You always say that.”
“And your point is?”
“You’ve got a habit of watching life instead of living it.”
Matt didn’t answer. That one landed too close to home.
“Now go back inside and do some work. That dissertation won’t write itself.”
“Do you think you could drag yourself away from Stirling for a weekend? It’d be great to see you.” Matt didn’t think his parents would mind having a guest, especially if he took Matt’s room.
I could always sleep on the couch.
“And if I wanted to bring a friend?”
Matt laughed. “Is that what you’re calling Garth? And does he know this?”
Eric grinned. “It’s way better than some of the things he calls me.”
“Sure, you can bring Garth too. Just… try not to freak out my parents?”
“I make no promises. Now… work.”
He chuckled. “I already have one boss. I don’t need another.” And with that he hung up and slipped the phone into his pocket.
Maybe Eric had needed to work out who he wanted.
Matt wasn’t convinced he wanted anybody enough for it to matter.
“Matt!” Dad’s voice reached him. “Want some breakfast?”
“Yeah. Coming.”
As he strolled towards the house, the line he’d typed came to mind. So did his conversation with Owen, the day they met.
‘History isn’t about dates. Men spent decades pretending they didn’t need anyone.’
As soon as he got back inside, he opened the laptop, and typed.
British masculinity prized emotional restraint.
Then he deleted prized, and typed expected.
That felt closer to the truth.
His phone buzzed in the pocket of his shorts, and he removed it.
Owen: I have to go into Winchester today. Sorry to change our plans.
He slid his thumbs over the screen.
No problem. The dissertation isn’t going anywhere either. We can tackle the garden tomorrow.
Thanks, Matt. I appreciate that.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket. It wasn’t as though another afternoon would make any difference. The dissertation would still be there, along with the books, the notes, the same paragraph waiting to be rewritten for the tenth time.
Gardens, on the other hand, changed every day.
He looked at the sentence on the screen again.
British masculinity expected emotional restraint.
Yeah. That one, at least, finally felt right. Satisfied, he saved the document.
Tomorrow, he’d work in the garden.