12

12

By the time Ripley saw the Winns' van pull up outside his mother's house, two local estate agents had been and gone. Their valuations had been more or less the same, around three and a half million pounds. The house was structurally sound, the gardens apparently ‘delightful', but everything needed ‘a touch' of modernisation. More than a touch in Ripley's opinion. It had been the family home for three generations.

His mother and Petra had attached labels to everything to be sold. Ripley had looked around and convinced them to include several more items. Very little was going to fit into a ‘small' flat in whatever town they settled on. But at least his mother seemed set on moving to Eastbourne. She and Petra had already picked out a few rental properties to look at. Ripley arranged for Harry to drive them.

Ripley's heart cramped when he saw Fen climbing out of the van along with a tall, sulky looking guy of about the same age. Ripley remembered seeing him in the shop. A man in his fifties climbed out after them. He'd wondered if Fen would still come. Ripley went to let them in. Would he be able to tell what Fen was thinking from the way he looked at him? Or didn't look at him? It was something he was skilled at in court, but right now? He had no idea. That Fen was hanging back told him he felt uncomfortable.

"Good morning." The older man had his hand out. "I'm Alistair Winn. Please call me Alistair. This is Scott and Fen. They both work in the business."

"Ripley Belmont." He shook Alistair's hand. Fen was looking down at his feet. Right. "Please come in. My mother and her companion are in the drawing room. There are a couple of items in there they wish to be sold. The smaller items are on the dining room table. Please feel free to wander around the house. Two bedroom doors are marked No Entry. Anything without a label is to be retained by the family."

"Thank you," Alistair said.

Scott looked as if he'd rather have been at the dentist and Fen's head was still down.

"If it's all right with you," Alistair said, "the three of us are going to work independently. These two are still learning so I'm keen to see how close they come to my valuations."

"Okay."

"Is it all right if we take pictures?" Alistair asked. "Obviously if we don't get the business, they'll be deleted, but we'll need to do some research back at the shop."

"Fine."

When the three split up, Ripley followed Fen, who was heading for the drawing room. He knocked on the door and went in, Ripley on his heels.

"Excuse me," Fen said. "Sorry to disturb you, ladies. I'm with the antiques company."

"What's wrong with you?" his mother asked.

His mother never considered anyone might be offended by what she said.

"I have muscular dystrophy."

"You're not going to get better then."

Ripley wanted to clap a hand over his mother's mouth but Fen actually chuckled.

"No. I'm not."

"You seem remarkably cheerful."

"What's the point in being sad? It is what it is. I can't change it."

"How very true. I like positivity."

Ripley wanted to roll his eyes. His mother could win prizes for her negativity.

"Tell me what you think of that side table?" his mother said.

Fen went over to it. "An eighteenth-century oak lowboy. It's in very good condition. Sadly, brown furniture has fallen out of fashion. In the past, it would have been worth double, maybe triple what it is now. I'd estimate between four and five hundred at auction. But to be frank, on a bad day, it could easily go for two."

"Do you know why it's called a lowboy?" his mother asked.

"Low because it's not as high as a highboy and boy is from the French for wood. Bois." Fen smiled. "Did I pass?"

Ripley's mother who rarely smiled at anything, let alone laughed, chortled. Good God.

"Do you speak French?" she asked.

"Un peu, Madame."

"Did you learn it at school?"

"Oui."

Fen moved around the room, deliberately not looking at Ripley. He took photos and made notes in a small book.

What was it about him that made Ripley's heart beat faster? Would having Fen in his bed once have been enough? He already knew it wouldn't or he'd not have made that six month offer. Ripley felt unsettled. It was going to be difficult to wait until Friday for Fen's decision.

"That's it in here. Thank you," Fen said. "And again, I'm sorry for disturbing you."

When he left the room, Ripley followed.

Ripley closed the door and quickly stepped in front of him. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm still thinking about it. You said I had until Friday."

That gave Ripley more hope than it should have done, though Fen's smile didn't warm his heart because he could see it was forced. Though the chuckle for his mother had sounded genuine, which was irritating. As had been the absence of texts over the weekend. But what had he expected? Please don't let me have wrecked everything.

He followed Fen into the dining room.

"Don't you have work to do?" Fen asked. "Or are you worried I'll slip a sideboard into my pocket?"

"I'd rather look at you than my laptop."

"Try Pornhub. Might change your mind."

Ripley barked out a laugh and hope surged again.

Fen stared at the table. "Wow. Is there nothing you want to keep?"

Ripley let his gaze wander over the vases, wine glasses, ornaments, picture frames, cutlery, Crown Derby dinner sets…ugh. He didn't even recognise a lot of it. "No."

"This carpet-ground paperweight is by Baccarat. It's probably worth about eight thousand pounds."

"Really? I used to play with it when I was a boy. I liked the little reindeer in it."

"They're cute."

"What does carpet ground mean?"

"Where a pattern of identical design canes is sometimes inset with contrasting canes, like the ones with the reindeer. Clear ground paperweights have a clear glass background and the decorative element is set inside it."

"Right." Keep talking.

"Oh, an ammonite," Fen said. "Did you find it?"

"Yes, with my father."

Fen spun to face him. "You should keep it. It doesn't have a huge monetary value, but it's a lovely memory. I'd keep it if it was mine."

Ripley had thought he didn't want anything to remind him, but Fen was right. He slipped it into his pocket.

"Where did you find it?"

"On holiday in Dorset." They'd had a great time. "My father gave me the hammer and told me where to hit the stone. When it broke open and we saw that, we couldn't believe it."

"Where was your mother?"

"South of France. She didn't consider Dorset a holiday. It was…magic. Me and my father, just the two of us, I—"

His throat dried up as he remembered their joy on that day, the way he'd run his fingers over the ridges in the rock and listened to his father explain how the fossil had been formed. He'd pushed all those memories behind a wall in his head. Fen had knocked out a brick. He was also aware Fen hadn't been as fortunate as him. There were no father-son trips to recall.

"Mouseman bookends." Fen sighed as he picked one up. "They're lovely."

"Have them."

Ripley spoke without thinking. He meant it but he saw it was the wrong thing to say.

"Going to take six to eight hundred pounds off the eighty thousand?"

"Of course not. You can have them."

Fen put the bookend down. "No thanks." He scribbled in his notebook.

"What do you think of the crystal punchbowl set?" Ripley asked. More for something to say than out of any interest.

"I don't like it but someone will. Two hundred pounds possibly."

"Is there anything here you'd keep if it was yours apart from the bookends?"

"If I was into ornaments, which I'm not, the Lalique fish, and the little bird."

"What about Japanese ornaments? You don't collect those?"

"No. I like to look, but not buy."

Fen took a couple of pictures and made more notes.

"I'm sorry about the way my mother spoke to you, the comment about not getting better."

Fen twisted his mouth into a wry grin. "No one has ever said that before. It made a change. Though she did ask what was ‘wrong' with me, an expression I find irritating."

"I didn't say that."

"No. You didn't." Fen shot him a little smile, which brought a lump to Ripley's throat. "I've thought about telling people I'd been attacked by a shark but you were the first person I actually said that to."

"Is that good?"

Fen nodded.

"I'm sorry as well," Ripley blurted. He never blurted. "I wish I'd not said that to you on Friday."

Fen turned to look at him. "Are you rescinding the offer?"

"I don't know the right answer. I don't want you to be upset, either way. What do you want me to say?"

Fen sighed. "Regardless of whether the offer stands or not, I'm still thinking."

"Is it going to put you off if I follow you round?" Because while they were still talking, there was hope.

"It's your house."

The door opened and the older man came in. "My word. What a tableful of beautiful objets d'art."

"I've finished in here," Fen said.

"This is a lovely house, Mr Belmont," Alistair said. "Gorgeous. And the contents too. I wish more people were interested in the type of furniture you want to sell, but some things aren't going to be as valuable as you might think. We do have contacts with clients who are looking for specific items, such as the writing desk in the study, but wardrobes and beds are more difficult. Have you thought about offering any of the contents to a potential purchaser? The dining table and chairs, for example?"

"I hadn't. It's a good point."

Fen left the room.

Ripley followed him to the study.

"Alistair's right. The desk is lovely," Fen said.

Ripley could almost see his father sitting behind it, smiling at him, telling him to hide behind the curtains so his mother couldn't see him. Sometimes his father had hidden in the window seat with him and held Ripley close as his mother called him.

"What did your father do for a living?"

"He ran a very successful telecom business." Ripley took a risk. "Do you know what yours does?"

"Yes." Fen went over to the bookshelves. "Unless they're first editions or rare or special in some way, it's hard to sell books. There are companies who'll buy them, but even charity shops are declining them now. It's such a shame."

So Fen's father was off limits. Got it. "I need to go through them to see if there's anything worth keeping."

"Would you like me to help you? I'm no expert but I can look to see if they're first editions or rare."

That Fen could offer to do that in the midst of the mess between them left Ripley unable to speak for a moment.

"Just let me know," Fen mumbled and took more pictures.

"Yes," Ripley said quickly. "I would appreciate your help. Thank you. Would you like a cup of tea? Would the others?"

"I'd love a black coffee. Alistair has tea, no sugar, and Scott has coffee with milk and one sugar."

"Give me a minute, then round them up and come to the kitchen. It's a couple of doors down."

Ripley left the room. He'd been in danger of pulling Fen into his arms and kissing him. He cursed himself for what he'd said on Friday. Maybe Fen would have had enough of him before they got anywhere near six months. Maybe I'd be the one disappointed.

Hadn't thought of that, had you, dickhead!

He had drinks waiting when the three came in, and he'd found biscuits too. Ripley had even made tea for his mother and Petra, though his mother had complained hers was too weak. Not a surprise.

Fen didn't take a biscuit. Alistair had one, Scott ate three. He picked out all the chocolate ones. Ripley tried not to take instant dislikes to people but he didn't like Scott. Something about his cocky manner set him on edge. Alistair was full of easy chat while Scott sat glued to his phone. Fen was quiet. Although Ripley was talking to Alistair, he was ultra-aware of what Fen was doing. Fen took his mug to the sink, rinsed it out and set it on the draining board, then made for the door. As soon as Ripley could escape, he followed.

He found Fen on the top floor in the long attic room. Fen turned as Ripley walked in.

"Is this where you hid?" he whispered, pointing to a small door to the eaves.

Ripley nodded.

Maybe Fen saw something in his face, some vulnerability, because the deep sigh sounded like one Ripley should have made.

"I should have kept my thoughts to myself about the things on the dining table," Fen said quietly. "I know memories can hurt just as easily as bring comfort. I'm sorry if I upset you."

"You didn't. You made me see sense about the fossil. But the entire house brings me both pleasure and pain." Ripley immediately developed a tight feeling in his throat. He'd never said that to anyone before.

"Good memories and bad. I get that. Pain never goes away. It might hurt less over time but there are still scars. There's not much you can do except fill your life with things that make you happy."

Was Fen talking about himself too?

"You don't mind your mother wanting to sell up?"

"No."

"I see a lot more in that no than you might think." Fen walked over and wrapped his arms around him.

Ripley's heart almost stopped. He found himself hugging Fen back and it felt as if for the first time in a long while, he could cope with someone showing him affection.

"Now I see a bit of the real you," Fen whispered.

"I'm…trying."

Ripley wasn't sure how long they stood there, and there was no way he was letting go first, but the sound of someone coming up the stairs broke them apart.

Fen walked over to a blanket chest sitting under the window and Scott came into the room.

"Anything up here?" Scott asked Fen.

"This chest, the bed, bedside table and those paintings."

Ripley was about halfway down the stairs when he heard Scott say, "He must be fucking loaded. What do you think he does for a living."

"Lawyer," Fen replied.

"No point you fancying him."

Ripley froze.

"Why not?" Fen asked.

"Why the fuck would he want you?"

"Why shouldn't he?"

Scott laughed and Ripley wanted to hit him.