Chapter 28

Chapter 28

"Choo! Choo!"

Rob grinned at me from the doorstep as I pedalled up his gravel driveway and came to a stop outside his massive Victorian house.

"Very funny," I said, getting off my bike.

"Ms Wilkins's face!" Rob beamed. "And then you had to justify it! ‘I like trains'!" He hooted. "I like bloody trains?! And you looked so earnest!"

"Yeah, yeah."

I left my bike propped up by an outbuilding that doubled as a garage and followed him through the front door and into a long hallway with Victorian tiles on the floor and a sweeping staircase off to the left. I caught glimpses of other rooms as we walked by – a large lounge with a plush carpet, massive sofas and big ornate lamps; a dining room with a huge mahogany table with candlesticks on it; another, smaller lounge; a study; a library … and, I've no doubt, most of the rest of the Cluedo board.

"What's your dad doing?" I asked.

"He's down at the Houses of Parliament, like usual," Rob said. "It's where he is most of the week. He's currently trying to rally opposition to a bill they're introducing to lower the gay age of consent to eighteen. It's an ‘assault on family values!' don't you know?!" Rob shook his head. "I can't wait 'til I don't live here any more, and I don't have to listen to his drivel."

"And no one else is here?"

"Relax. I'm allowed friends round," he said. "Just as long as that's all they are, if they're boys." He winked at me, and my stomach flipped. "I must be kept on the straight and narrow; we don't want to assault family values, do we now? Speaking of which, let's have a bit of underage boozing, shall we? Fancy a drink? Follow me."

He led me through to the vast kitchen – fitted oak units with marble worktops, an island in the middle and a hefty-looking Aga on one side. The far end had floor-to-ceiling windows with French doors in the middle, leading out to the lush gardens beyond, which went on for as far as the eye could see. He got out some glasses which he filled with ice, a slug of vodka, and topped up with Coke.

"I'm only having one," he said, handing me a glass. "I've got my driving test tomorrow morning during my free."

"Are you nervous?"

"Nah, I'm gonna pass with flying colours. I'm a great driver!" He grinned at me.

"Can't wait 'til I'm old enough to start lessons.*"

"Aw, I forget you're still sixteen, baby boy."

"Shut up." But I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face.

"Come on, let's sit down in the snug – let me know if you need a rattle."

"Seriously, shut up."

The snug was a little room on the left, just back up the hallway. There was a soft L-shaped sofa in it, a television, bookcases along one wall, a fireplace on the other, plus a little trolley with drinks bottles on it. On the coffee table in the middle was a wooden box filled with cigars. I'd never thought much about Rob's wealth before, but it certainly hit me then. We were from two different worlds. Did that matter? It must have done to me, as I vowed he couldn't ever see where I lived.

That was another thing about expectations, you see. Everyone always assumed, because I was a straight A student, and because I was polite and well-mannered, that I came from a wealthy family. But that wasn't true. Since dad had left, we'd really struggled. We didn't have spending money, we didn't have fancy holidays or a big TV, just a lot of bills with scary red writing on them. I never corrected people, though. It was something else that shamed me, I suppose, even though there was nothing I could do about it. And shame is what those in charge want you to feel, I realized. If you're ashamed, you're less likely to ask for help, and if you don't ask for help, then you're invisible. That's a good way of sweeping you and your issues under the carpet, pretending you don't exist, that there's no problem, and so, inequality continues, the rich get richer, the status quo is maintained, and all is well. Or so they tell you.

We flopped down next to each other on the sofa. "You really got Speak No Monkey to play at the ball then?"

I nodded. "You gonna come now?" I remembered asking them to dedicate a song to Rob. I wondered if they would. And smiled, thinking about what that might mean to him.

"I liked that note you wrote in the book. About each having matching handkerchiefs, and being together, even though we couldn't be? That was sweet. Do you want to know something?"

"What?"

"That's when I fell in love with you a little bit." He turned to me with a massive grin on his face. "Yeah. I'll come. Everyone else is. Sounds like you actually might have put together a non-crap school event."

"I tried," I said.

"Not just a pretty face, huh?"

I met his eyes and he smiled at me. "You cannot take a compliment – you always blush. It's cute."

I looked down at my drink.

He reached over and squeezed my leg, his hand lingering for a moment, me, feeling like something might happen, until a scrappy little terrier skidded in and launched itself on to the sofa, immediately wedging itself between me and Rob and settling down.

"Jamie, meet Casper." Rob's eyes widened. "Oh, are you OK with dogs?"

"Yeah, I love them."

Rob smiled. "Good, else this probably wouldn't work out." He clocked my face. "I'm joking. Sort of. But if it was between you and the dog—"

"You'd pick the dog, I get it."

"He was my mum's, really."

"Oh…"

There was a moment of silence where I considered saying something like "I'm sorry" again, but I just let the moment pass.

"And now he's mine," Rob said softly.

"He's sweet. What is he?"

"Heinz 57. We're not quite sure what." He gave Casper a scratch under his ear, which he seemed to really enjoy. "Do you want to watch some telly?" He grabbed a copy of the Radio Times from the coffee table and flicked to today's date. "We can catch the end of Summer Holiday on BBC One – presented by Jill Dando – do you like her? It's ‘a new series with an emphasis on what the ordinary British holidaymaker thinks. Some reports will come entirely from the public, such as tonight's report on Walt Disney World from the Wood family in Worthing'." He looked up. "Well, that sounds like shit. Why do I care what the Wood family think? EastEnders at seven thirty – ‘Arthur refuses to help the aged'. That's tantalizing!"

I laughed. "Anything on ITV?"

He scanned the page. "No, there is not. There's some sort of sci-fi film from the 60s on BBC Two." He blew out a breath. "BBC One it is, I think!"

He pressed the power button and the TV made a high-pitched zapping noise as it came to life, the picture emerging as it warmed up. About twenty-five minutes later, I suddenly became aware that Rob West wasn't watching the TV screen, but was watching me. Our eyes locked. Then, in a moment of mutual consent, when we somehow both knew and both wanted to, we leaned towards each other and…

Now I would love to be able to tell you that my first, what I would call big kiss* was by moonlight, under the stars, or a beautiful sunset. I would love to tell you that it was a perfect night, or day, that the birds were singing, there was warm evening air, or there were lapping waves, or a crackling fire.

Instead, thanks to the choices made by the TV schedulers on that fateful day, 31st May 1994, our backdrop was the soundtrack of high drama on EastEnders as Grant (played by Ross Kemp) punched David (Michael Ford) in the face, for the crime of dancing with Sharon (Letitia Dean) in the Queen Vic.

But still: wow.

It lasted all through the closing credits. And it was completely amazing.

To this day, every time I hear that theme music, or see Ross Kemp, I'm reminded of the first time I properly snogged another boy. I feel like that's the very epitome of what it means to be British, so I'm OK with that.

And we did a lot more kissing that evening.

Slow, long, breathless, frantic, tender, and, sometimes, slightly rough.

I wanted him so badly.

I think he wanted me too.

Don't get too excited, though. I was just about to ruin it.

*Took three tests, failed them all, still can't drive.

*I'm talking full-on tongues, OK? Not just lips brushing. I'm talking another boy, actually clamped to my mouth for a pretty long time. Note to editor: too much information?