Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Noah meets me at Brighton Station. He lifts an eyebrow at me, my gray duffle bag slung over my shoulder. “Where’s your suit?” he asks archly. “It better not be stuffed in there.”
“Funny story, that.” I give him a sidelong look. “My suit’s run off and started a new life.”
“Let’s have it. I’ve been waiting for the latest installment.”
“Er, Florian lost my suit.”
“He what?” Noah looks at me, stunned. “Didn’t see that coming. Shock twist.”
We start to walk outside to join the queue for a taxi.
“You heard me. He called to let me know he lost it. I mean the suit, not his grip on sanity.”
“Holy shit.” Noah takes this in. “That would have been some phone call. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall on that conversation. He doesn’t sound like the sort to admit to mistakes.”
“Yeah, well. Actually, the dry cleaners lost it. So, it’s their mistake, in truth.”
“Hmm.” Noah rubs his jaw as we climb into the taxi. He gives the driver the name of our waterfront hotel, and we’re off. Then he glances at me again. “Maybe it’s their mistake, like you said. Or maybe he felt guilty about keeping your suit, and he needed a cover story to keep his souvenir of you.”
“What, like a trophy? I’m hardly a conquest.” I press my lips together. One disaster queer isn’t a prize, more of a liability, which Florian should know all about with his business acumen. “I believe him that the suit was lost. And he agreed to get me a replacement.”
“Well, where is it, then? Better not be in that bag, like I said.”
I shake my head. “Well, to blow your trophy theory out of the water, he called me earlier to say the dry cleaners found it and that they’d send it on to the hotel today for me.”
“Huh. Yeah, definitely a guilty conscience, knowing you needed it. I mean, what were you going to do?”
“Panic-buy or I guess rent a replacement suit that he agreed to pay for, except I was stressed, and nothing seemed right in the shops this morning. He called at the right moment.”
I may admit to the ongoing suit debacle to Noah, but I’m keeping the earlier phone banter with Florian all to myself. Because that feels too private, too new. Like something my growing crush would indulge in during an idle moment for lack of anything else.
Though who knew Florian was human? And here I thought he was all efficiency.
“Well.” Noah looks at me. “Sounds like another excuse to keep in touch with you.”
With a noncommittal shrug, I glide to the next topic. “Johan bailed.”
“Yeah, I heard. Sorry about that. You can hang out with me and Raheem. It’ll be cool.” Raheem’s Noah’s boyfriend, and he’s cooler than the rest of us all put together. They’ve been dating for a few months now.
“Thanks. I bet you love having a third wheel.”
Noah waves me off. “It’s a wedding. No third-wheel action tomorrow. We’re all celebrating together.”
“I feel bad, though, that they’re wasting a meal.”
“Don’t worry, some wedding crasher will come for a free dinner. I bet Brighton’s rife with them.”
“Yeah, the hungry queers of Brighton infiltrating Paul and Caden’s wedding.” I shake my head at him. “Anyway, I made it here. My suit’s supposed to make it here too. And I’m ready for lunch and the rehearsal. I’m starving.”
The taxi drops us off, and Noah pays. Before long, we’re checked into our hotel. Overlooking the sea from my room, more seagulls yell, cavorting in the air, and doubtless looking for a free meal. Probably I should invite them to the wedding collectively as my plus-one.
The rest of the afternoon passes by quickly, with everyone taking over a corner of a local pub for a meal before the rehearsal at 5:00 p.m. We successfully go through the exercise of successfully marrying Paul and Caden off, with Raheem the faux celebrant.
It’s a fun night, and we carry on into a gastropub after for more eating.
The foolhardy decide to go clubbing, while I call it a night and go back to the hotel by 10:00 p.m. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow’s going to be longer yet, so I’m hedging my bets—and budget too.
I stop by the front desk, where I told them earlier I expected a delivery.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gowen-Smith. There have been no deliveries for you.”
Panic rises. “What do you mean there have been no deliveries?”
“I’m afraid exactly that.”
“Nothing suit-shaped?”
“Nothing at all for you, unfortunately.” The young woman at the front desk gives me a sympathetic smile and a shrug. “Suit-shaped or otherwise. But we’ll let you know if anything arrives for you.”
“Okay. Right. Thanks.” My fingers tighten around my room key card in my pocket as I head upstairs. Shit. What does this mean? Other than I’m down a suit for tomorrow.
Florian said he’d see to it that my suit was delivered. Though he didn’t quite promise, he seemed quite assured, and I didn’t have reason to doubt him.
Disappointed and not sure what I’m going to do tomorrow, I head back to my room to flop bonelessly onto the bed and indulge in a moment of moody gloom.
Though I should be careful not to wrinkle this shirt because it’s what I’m going to have to end up wearing tomorrow.
Reluctantly, I peel myself off the bed, change into a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, and resume full flop.
I watch TV for a while. I try and fail to read my novel. After an aborted attempt, I go back to the TV. And by midnight, there’s still no call from the front desk.
Shit. I’m officially screwed. And it’s technically tomorrow.
Rolling over, I reach for my phone and text Florian. He likes efficiency, right? And New York’s a few hours behind, so it’s not like it’s an indecent time to text him.
My suit didn’t show up at the hotel. Still lost?
Maybe Noah’s hypothesis that Florian wanted to keep it for himself is right. Because right now, I have no other explanation. I should have known this would end in disappointment, but it feels worse after our earlier call. There was a moment when I thought everything was finally turning around.
Despite my angst, I fall into a deep and dreamless sleep, uninterrupted by any phone chimes from Florian or the front desk.