It comes to a
head so
peacefully, rising slowly, curving gently, that he
hardly notices until
it's
done. Between them,
two freshly opened
bottled beers squat on the short grass.
Tom lies on his back, ankles linked, arms
crossed behind his
head, eyes
closed against the brightness of the low evening
sun.
To his right Ben lies, propped up on one
elbow on his side, his crisp white cotton shirt
casually open at the
neck,
sleeves rolled loosely up his honey-tanned arms. "Why?" he asks. "His name was
Gavin." A start which
for Tom
explains everything, for Ben nothing.
But he remains quiet and Tom continues. "At first it
was like
dragging a bored student around after me.
But he learnt quickly, and along with wisdom
came friendship. He was
invited into our house as you've been
- and may I say you're as welcome as he was, whereas
Scott most
definitely was
not. "One evening
he came for
dinner even though Cully was in back "In the
morning I made
him breakfast and we went to work like nothing had
happened. But it had.
And over the next six months it did again and
again. Lazy, stolen
afternoons in his rented flat in
town, nights when Joyce was away or evenings when
she was just out. Even
a weekend in "We emailed
one another
for a while, promised we'd meet, have a couple of
drinks - book a room,
we both
knew what we meant even if we didn't say it.
It's two-hundred and fifty miles from Causton
to Middlesborough,
it
might as well have been a thousand. "And by the
time I saw
sense and that it wasn't his fault, he hated me too,
hated Midsomer and
everything it stood for." And Tom tells
him. That simple.
A simple lie, straightforward lie. Maybe Tom's
remembering other
summer evenings. "Then he left
anyway,
and you stayed, and even though she tried to replace
him with Scott you
never
took the bait. And how
much of a relief
was it for her to know that you weren't ever going
to leave her, to
know her
marriage is forever safe?" "What makes
you say
that?" "And when we
arrived,
Mrs Hatchard said she'd make up our rooms but the
question in her eyes
was on
the plural. If she
hadn't already met
Joyce she might have even asked.
Like
Joyce, she was wondering why I'm here. "I'm here
because you
want to but you won't. I'm
here because
you think about it but won't act on it.
I'm here because every time I make a move you
push me away and
you think
this will make up for that - some silent gesture
that you need what I'm
offering but won't allow yourself to have it." "Insightful
man, aren't
you, Ben?" he murmurs softly after a long time. "Yes."
Tom nods decisively. "You're a
beautiful man,
Ben. I think I'm too
old that I don't
want to go through it all again.
But I
look at you and a part of me wants to take
everything I know you're
offering me,
sink into it. Into
you." "You do the
same to me
every day," he admits, voice rough so that Ben would
have missed the
confession had he not been listening for it. And Ben
hesitates just to be
sure, before turning his head to kiss Tom's palm - a
kiss brimming over
with
promises. |