4

4

By the time Fen left his bedsit, he'd been through every item of clothing he possessed—though that hadn't taken long—until he'd finally accepted he didn't own anything near smart enough for BarCalypso,or for Ripley Belmont. He'd looked the bar up. The cheapest cocktail was twelve pounds. Fen had a sneaky suspicion even a lemonade would cost more than he was prepared to pay. It really griped that he could buy a two-litre bottle of lemonade for a fraction of the cost of a glass of it in a bar.

Well, it probably didn't matter. Maybe Ripley would buy him a drink but that was all. Maybe he'd be there with friends and expect Fen to hand over the bags and leave. It was stupid to hope for more. Especially after the way Fen had spoken to him.

Even so, he wanted to look his best. He'd put on his skinny dark-grey jeans, a pale pink T-shirt and a blue V-necked sweater. Once he'd applied eyeliner, he smiled at his reflection. No point in lip gloss because he'd have licked it off by the time he got there. He looked…tired. But then he always looked tired.

Fen didn't see himself as good-looking, though from as far back as he could remember, people had told him he was. That type of comment was sort of expected from his mother, but even at ballet school comments had been made about his sharp cheekbones and his soulful eyes. Fen had never imagined he'd turn heads with his looks but now if they did turn, it was most likely because of the way he walked.

Once upon a time, he'd hoped to turn heads when people watched him dance. Maybe he could have reached the top, survived the bullying, taunts and injuries to become a principal. He'd had it all planned out, until things began to go wrong. Fen falling when there was no reason, fumbling a catch, his sense of balance no longer reliable, an easy jump he couldn't get right. Even climbing stairs became a challenge. His stamina had gone. As his world was falling apart, he remembered being told off for not trying hard enough. But he always tried.

His mum had taken him to the doctor and tests had been done. On his fifteenth birthday, he and his mum had gone to get the results. Fen had BMD, Becker Muscular Dystrophy. It was a genetic disorder, inherited from his mother, a muscle wasting condition, which usually only affected boys. She'd been horrified, and as Fen's world imploded, it was he who'd had to comfort her, make her see he probably wouldn't have been around if she'd known and he was glad he was around. Wasn't she? She'd hugged him hard through her tears. Worse still, his mum was going to have issues with her life too. Not like him, but…

BMD was gradually killing Fen, but he preferred not to think about it like that. Death lurked around the corner for every single person on the planet. No one could predict the future, so he was determined to live the best life he could, while he could. He'd had to accept ballet was no longer an option. A lot of things were no longer options. But after the initial shock and his journey through every stage of grief, he'd understood there was no point going through life being miserable. And if he sometimes couldn't help feeling sad, then he had to fake looking cheerful.

He put on his Doc Marten boots because that was what he always wore. He liked the support they gave him. He pulled on his beanie and stuffed his gloves in his coat pocket for later. Once he'd fastened up his coat, he headed downstairs with the items he'd bought divided between two plastic bags.

So far his heart was fine, and cardiomyopathy was generally what shortened the lives of sufferers. He did Pilates and Tai Chi, exercised within the bounds of his ability, always took his corticosteroids, attended his medical check-ups, ate as well as he could, and although some days he felt worse than others, he'd not yet noticed a significant decline in his mobility. He was lucky it wasn't Duchenne's. Fen was twenty-four and if he'd had DMD, he'd be lucky to make it to his thirties.

Fen had always wished his condition was down to his dad. Well, not his dad. He'd never had a dad. His birth father was only a man who'd made his mum pregnant. A man who'd never acknowledged him, never written to him, never even paid child support. Not that his mother had wanted him to. Fen wasn't sure how he felt about that because it might have been nice to have had more money for stuff when he was younger, for his mum not to have to work so hard to provide for both of them. But it was what it was. His father was a man who was known and loved the world over. But not by Fen. And he never would be by Fen.

It was a long way to Covent Garden. It would have been much quicker on the Tube but that involved too much walking and he always worried about something happening underground and him getting trapped because he couldn't get to the surface quickly enough.

The bar was easy to find. Before Fen went in, he stuffed his hat into his pocket with his gloves, then dragged his fingers through his hair so it wasn't flat to his head. He rarely went to bars unless he went out with his friends and they didn't ever pick places like this. A glance around inside showed no sign of Ripley. There was no way he could afford to buy a drink while he waited. Fen found a wall to lean against and people-watched. He hadn't had anything to eat because he'd spent his time—when not faffing over what to wear and how he looked—I'm an idiot—mending the puzzle box—a complete idiot. He wondered if Ripley would even notice. He probably wouldn't because Fen had done a really good job on the repair.

A group of scantily-clad women were flirting with one of the barmen but Fen had seen the look he'd shot towards a man he'd just served and thought they were wasting their time. Fen had a pretty good gaydar, though he didn't need it for the two on his right who had their hands in each other's back pockets as they stood talking. Fen thought how lovely it looked and how if he tried it, he'd probably fall over. To stop himself staring, he read the cocktail menu above the bar.

He checked the time. Two minutes to go. He glanced round and spotted Ripley walk in. Fen took a picture and pushed his phone in his pocket. Ripley wore a slim-cut charcoal suit and white shirt, a knight in his armour, and looked as if he'd come straight from the office. He probably spent his day barking orders at his minions. No tie this time. No smile either. Maybe a smile from him was a rare beast. But he was still sexy and handsome.

So Fen donned the brightest one he could manage without risking looking like a chimpanzee and stepped towards him. "Hi."

"Are they mine?"

Well, hello to you too, arsehole. "Yes."

"I'll take them out to the car."

Fen handed the bags over and Ripley disappeared. Maybe he wouldn't come back. Goodbye seventy-five pounds. If it hadn't been for the money, Fen wasn't sure he wanted him to come back. Miserable git. His small hope of Ripley noticing he'd repaired the box disintegrated. What had he expected? A begrudging thanks? But Ripley did come back, this time wearing the Crombie coat with the collar turned up.

"Shall we?" Ripley inclined his head toward the exit.

"Shall we what?"

"Leave."

"Why?" What the fuck? I thought I was getting a drink?

"There's a gallery opening I want to take you to."

"Then why did you arrange to meet me here? I'd started to salivate at the idea of a…Hot Sling. Vodka, Southern Comfort, Amaretto, Peach Schnapps, pineapple and coconut juice. They have cute little monkeys on the stirring sticks." Shut up, brain! Stop sniggering, cock.

"If I was late, I didn't want you to wait outside. Are you coming? I have your money."

He stalked off and Fen's stupid feet followed. A dog following a bone. Though not at speed. Couldn't Ripley have at least smiled at what he'd said?

"It's not far." Ripley's pace was much too fast for Fen.

He did his best to keep up, failed, and Ripley eventually slowed down. Fen was sort of surprised he'd not been asked about the crutch but this guy was so self-absorbed he probably hadn't noticed. What shall I go for? Injured in a shark attack? Ingrown toenail? Fencing accident? The truth?

"The artist is a friend of mine, so be careful what you say."

Fen bristled. So Ripley already had him down as someone who said what came into his head without thinking about it. Oh, Fen had thought about it! Fuck you and the donkey you rode in on!

Fortunately, the gallery wasn't far away. Less than a hundred metres from the bar and when Ripley held the door open for him to go in, Fen thawed—a little. Coats were taken, cloakroom tickets given and Ripley looked him up and down. Fen had no idea if he approved of what he was wearing, but nothing was said. In this dim light, the sweater didn't look too bad. A tray of what appeared to be flutes of champagne appeared in front of them, brandished by a waiter, and they each took a glass.

When Ripley began to walk round, Fen stuck to his heels. The paintings were smudgy impressionistic landscapes done in pastels. Not really Fen's thing, though they were clever. He sipped the champagne and grimaced at the sharp taste. Not that he knew anything about champagne, the only time he'd ever had it was when Alistair had opened a bottle for Fen's mum's birthday.

It seemed as if Ripley didn't know many people there because he didn't say hello to many and even when he did, he kept moving. When he finally stopped, he was greeted by a guy who looked nervous, and Fen guessed he was the artist.

"Congratulations," Ripley said. "How's it going?"

"Okay, I think. Everyone's being kind. To my face, anyway. So, who's this?"

"Fen," Ripley said. "This is Josef. It's his work on the walls."

Fen shook his hand. "Dulux Polished Pebble? Silk?"

That raised a laugh. "Skimming Stone by Farrow and Ball, I believe."

At least Ripley's friend had a sense of humour.

"What do you think?" Josef asked.

Fen summoned up Alistair's tact. "Your depiction of light as it changes through the times of the day is amazing. The purple is inspired, how it contrasts with the colours of autumn. I do like the lightness of the marks in the way you've handled the sky. It's an intriguing balance."

Josef beamed at him. "You're an artist?"

"No, but I have restored paintings."

"You think pink might have been better than purple?"

Was it a trick question? "I can't answer that. You made the decision and you had your reasons."

"What about this one?" Josef gestured towards the neighbouring painting. Fen moved over to look at it, considering what to say.

"Very vibrant. My eyes don't know where to settle. On those lively blades of grass in the foreground, or the mountains with the amazing snow." Or on the brown lump I can't identify. "It's very clever the way you pull the viewer's attention over the painting." Except where was the focal point?

"You don't think it's missing a focal point?"

"Yes, but I thought that must be what you were going for."

"It is. Thank you." Josef turned to Ripley. "Are you going to tear me to shreds? Ask me what I've painted? What the brown thing is?"

"Er…"

Oh God, don't ask me that!

Josef chuckled. "I'll give you a discount."

"Er…"

"Not your thing, I know, but thanks for coming and thanks for bringing someone who does appreciate my work."

He sidled off into the crowd and Ripley edged Fen back towards the exit. "We can go now."

"We've only just arrived."

"We've seen the pictures, spoken to Josef. There's no one here I want to talk to apart from you and I don't want to talk to you here."

Ripley took the still half-full glass from Fen's hand and put it down on a table with his, then they collected their coats. Fen was torn between irritation and attraction. Which was unfortunate.

"Hungry?" Ripley asked.

A drink had been offered, not food but Fen nodded.

"I know somewhere. Come on."

Fen followed him outside, and when Ripley set off down the road, this time he went more slowly so they walked side by side.

"Did you mean any of that?" Ripley asked.

"I said what I saw. Though I had no idea what the brown lump was. Why did you want me to go there with you?"

"I was interested to see if you were honest."

Fen sucked in his cheeks. "I was honest."

"I did notice you didn't actually say you liked them."

Fen winced. "Ah."

"Did you like them?"

"Not particularly, but I would never have said that. A hundred people might say someone's work is great but the person who says the opposite is the one who haunts them. Art is such a personal thing. Like books. I've read books where the cover and inside pages are full of famous people saying how brilliantly funny it is and yet the book hadn't made me laugh once, and I think I have a good sense of humour."

"What sort of books do you think I like?"

"Intimidation techniques for the 21st century? How to crush enemies without spilling blood for beginners? Building your own shed without nails?"

Ripley laughed. An actual laugh. It gave Fen hope and he risked a smile.

"Remembered where you think you know me from?" Fen asked.

"No. I'm not sure I have seen you before."

A black car was idling around the corner and as they approached, the driver got out and opened the rear door.

"Thank you," Fen said as he climbed in.

"Do you like Italian food?" Ripley dropped down next to him.

"Yes."

And that was all Ripley said on the journey, though he did stare at Fen. He was odd. Fen didn't know what to make of him.

They were dropped off at a small restaurant in Soho where Ripley was greeted by name. Their coats were hung up and they were taken straight to a table. Fen knew it was going to be expensive even before he'd looked at the menu. The place was small, the tables were set well apart and waiters were floating around delivering plates of food that looked like mini works of art.

"Do they do pizza with pineapple?" Fen asked, just to see Ripley's reaction.

"They will if you want it."

Fen smiled. "No, I'm happy with …" He looked down at the menu. "Melanzane alla parmigiana." He had no idea what it was, but he knew the last word meant parmesan. Even if it was full of cheese and cream, this was a treat and he allowed himself occasional treats.

Ripley ordered wine. "How did you get into the antiques business?"

"I'd tried all sorts of things and it turned out to be something I could do. But I don't like the haggling, buying and selling. I prefer repair and restoration. Only minor restoration though. No one's going to let me get my hands on anything really valuable."

"And you like Japanese ceramics?"

"I like what's in that cabinet. The netsuke, lacquerware, Kokeshi dolls, kintsugi ware, little bowls—especially if they have fish on them."

"Have you ever been to Japan?"

"I've not even got a passport."

The guy arrived with the wine, then another waiter came to take their order.

"Did you really like the globe?" Fen asked when they were alone again.

"Do I strike you as someone who'd pay six hundred pounds for something he didn't like?"

"No. But then I don't know you. Not really. I can guess a little but…" The moment he'd said that, he wished he hadn't because he knew what was going to come now.

"What impression do you have of me?"

Fen had walked into the trap, now he had to climb out of it and not mention the word gay. "You're focussed, driven, single-minded and in a job that requires you to wear designer suits. I have no idea what you do for a living. Maybe you run your own company or you could be a plastic surgeon."

Ripley gave nothing away.

"You have expensive tastes. Cartier cufflinks. Crombie coat. You don't like being called out on anything… Me saying you should have thanked me, in particular, though I didn't intend for you to hear so you obviously have the hearing of a bat."

Ripley chuckled. "That's been said before."

"You like good food and are prepared to pay well for it. You drink expensive wine. I'm guessing it is anyway. Please don't tell me how much it was or I might not be able to drink it. You drive an expensive car recklessly through puddles, but you can also afford a driver. You're pissed off with your mother and for some reason that as yet escapes me, I interest you."

Should I have said that last part? Or any of it?

Ripley twirled his wine glass in his fingers. "I do find you interesting."

Fen took a sip of wine for something to do with his mouth other than mutter inane comments. Except he couldn't help himself. "Why?"

"You're a little like a piece of kintsugi. Damaged—hence the crutch, but strong and not broken. Maybe more beautiful for all of that."

Fen knew his jaw had dropped. "What—what do you do for a living?" Poet?

"I'm a barrister."

Nowhere near a poet but someone who was good with words.

"Not tempted to tell me I'm well dressed for someone who works in a coffee shop?"

"More tempted to tell you that you shouldn't tell bad jokes and insult my intelligence. Barista has the emphasis on the is, whereas barrister has the emphasis on the double r. I was thinking it wouldn't be a good idea to argue with you. Though you wouldn't be arguing, would you? You'd be explaining why you were right. You must be a nightmare to live with."

Ripley laughed and his face lit up. Fen wished he'd laugh more often because it made him look human. Well, a friendlier type of alien. He wished he dare take a picture.

"Do you live with your mum?" Fen asked.

"She found me a nightmare to live with."

"I don't believe you. Mums never think that about sons."

But the slight shadow crossing Ripley's face made Fen wonder.

"Do you see much of your parents?" Ripley asked.

"I see my mum every couple of weeks."

"Is your father still alive?"

"Yes, but I don't see him."

"Why not?"

"He's never been in my life."

"Why not?"

Fen shrugged. Why was he pushing? "You'd have to ask him. What about your family?"

"No siblings. Father…dead. Mother claims to have the beginnings of dementia but only when it suits her. She has a live-in companion."

"Is that how things ended up in the auction?"

"She did it to irritate me."

"Almost losing your grandfather's George Cross?"

Ripley grimaced. "I've had words with her. I don't think it was deliberate."

"Don't be unkind." That had slipped out.

"Why would you care if I'm unkind to my mother?"

"Because she's your mother."

"Are you unkind about your father who's never been in your life?"

Fen shook his head. "I don't waste a breath on him."

"But you know who he is?"

Fen tried not to react. There was no way Ripley could know the name of his father. Only he and his mum knew. Maybe Alistair too if she'd told him. "Yes. I know who he is. And you're not a good barrister if you don't take in the expression on my face saying shut up about my family."

Ripley smiled. "But a good barrister keeps pressing until he gets the answers he wants."

"Not from me." Fen pushed awkwardly to his feet. "I'm not in a courtroom."

Ripley looked shocked. "Don't go. Sorry. Please sit down. You're right about me finding you interesting. And interesting people tend to have interesting lives. Please don't go. I won't ask about your family again."

Fen sat down. The food arrived moments later. It looked amazing. A stacked-up tower, topped with sage. No way was Fen going to be able to eat it all.

"Think it's all right if I take a picture?" Fen asked.

"Go ahead."

Then I'll have another one of you too.