Chapter Three

Heath left Stef’s flat heading for his new, albeit temporary home, feeling optimistic. He’d even put on eyeliner for the first time in a week. He had no one to impress. It just made him feel better. Fabian’s flat was in north-west London so Heath waited until morning rush hour was over before he attempted the journey with his protesting suitcase. Even so, lugging it up and down stairs and escalators was a pain and a worry.

He walked out of the train station into a cloudburst. To be fair, the torrential downpour only started once he was trapped in the middle of the road with traffic roaring past on either side. Of course no one stopped. Did they ever? This was London. No one gave a shit. Not even when it was so close to Christmas. If he’d been dressed as Santa Claus, carrying a sack and pursued by a reindeer, they wouldn’t have bloody stopped.

How was he supposed to be positive when crap like this always happened to him? He stood with cold water dripping down his neck and his face, wishing he’d forked out for the will-stay-on-whatever-the-hell-you-fucking-do eyeliner, because he suspected the cheaper stuff was rolling down his cheeks.

Heath willed the red man to change colour. Now!

It didn’t. Bloody men. All of them. Especially Diego, but me too. Because much as he might want to believe himself blameless—he wasn’t. Heath had to admit that no did come out of his mouth a lot more often than yes. When Diego had started to call him out on it, Heath had made an effort to be more positive but, in the end, it had been too late for their relationship. Saying no, one too many times, had led to his life spiralling down a black hole. So it had to stop. No had to become yes.

As Heath stared at the red man, it morphed into a smiley, dancing, winking Santa. What the hell? Was he that tired? He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Green man. At last! And not dancing. Heath yanked up the handle on his suitcase and it broke off. Oh for fuck’s sake! By the time he’d struggled to turn the case the other way up, the green man flashed, warning him not to cross.

Bugger that. There was time. He was now a yes guy and he wasn’t afraid of London traffic. Mostly. Heath hauled the bulging suitcase across the last section of the busy road, ignoring the blast of horns, wondering how long before the case burst open and scattered his belongings in front of everyone. How far down had he packed Dickhead’s pride and joy? Because if the Fleshlight escaped and bounced to slap a kid in the face, that would just be his luck.

One moment’s distraction and a cyclist shot between him and the curb. He’d raced straight through a flooded gutter and sent a wave of dirty water spraying over Heath. Why me! Frozen in place with shock, Heath squeaked when a car bumper nudged his case and a horn blared. Before he got flattened, or the Fleshlight made a break for it, he dragged himself and his case to safety. Christ! What more could happen? A tsunami rushing up the Thames? An apocalypse of flying ants? An alien invasion?

Don’t tempt fate a little voice muttered in his ear.

Now he was soaked, it was too late to seek shelter in a café until the rain stopped, so Heath kept walking towards his new abode. The rain turned to sleet and he shivered. He had a month before Fabian returned, assuming Costa Rica wasn’t hit by a tsunami or an invasion of flying ants or aliens, and everyone was evacuated. A vivid imagination was not always helpful. But a month was plenty of time to find a new job, then somewhere of his own to live. And make himself a new life with a positive outlook while he was at it.

He wasn’t sure he was up to the latter, but he’d give it a damn good try. Maybe he ought to have yes! tattooed on his hand. Both hands.

No, that wasn’t going to happen. Tattoos hurt and he wouldn’t want anyone to think he was a pushover. That was another no then. Heath sighed. He needed to stop thinking of things he didn’t want to do, then he’d be able to be a yes guy.

If his innate sense of direction hadn’t gone the way of his life, the flat should be just around the corner. Heath stopped in front of a glossy blue front door and looked at the line of names at the side. Oh damn. Fabian’s flat was on the top floor. Don’t moan! Heath used the code Stef had given him to let himself into a smart communal reception hall with a Moroccan-style tiled floor. It was populated by a line of chained-up, expensive-looking bikes, which reminded him of Diego’s bike, a piece of equipment that Heath hadn’t even been allowed to breathe on, let alone touch. And he knew that wasn’t okay, that he shouldn’t have put up with it, but he was tired of being alone and… The thing had been given pride of place in the lounge. Not his flat so nothing Heath could say or do, except glower at it when Diego wasn’t looking.

He hauled his heavy suitcase up the stairs, begging it not to burst open, leaving a wet slug-like trail behind him, maybe more from water dripping from him than from his luggage. Gasping for breath by the time he reached the top, Heath slumped onto the edge of his case and heard the catch snap. He sprang upright.

“Oh no,” he groaned, and then clamped his lips together. Think positive. The suitcase had already started its death rattle when he’d packed it. He’d have to buy another one, because if Fabian did come back unexpectedly, Heath would have to move straight out. This was a one-bedroom flat and he didn’t know the guy well enough to ask to sleep on his couch. Was there anywhere around here he could buy a suitcase? Probably not.

Shit! Be positive! “Fabulous flat, here I come.”

Heath unlocked the door, pushed it wide open and gasped so hard his lungs locked. Burglary. Oh fuck! His fingers reached for his mobile to call the police until he saw it was almost out of charge. Another glance inside the flat and he reconsidered his original impression. Not ransacked by a thief, just incredibly untidy. Oh no. I mean—Oh bother. And Heath was Mr Tidy and Mr Clean, as well as Mr No. He pulled his suitcase inside and almost closed the door on a cat’s tail as it shot in behind him.

Bloody hell! “Sorry!”

The black cat turned and hissed, arching its back so high that it looked like one of those Halloween cartoon versions of the animal.

“Nice kitty,” Heath muttered hopefully. Stef hadn’t mentioned a cat. Still, it made no difference, this was somewhere to live while he licked his wounds. Even a resident snake wouldn’t have put him off.

Liar. Well, yes, a snake would have put him off. Along with a whole load of animals he wasn’t keen on. Tarantulas, lizards, gerbils, hamsters, frogs, turtles, Tasmanian Devils. There were none of those. That was a plus!

The cat gave him a look filled with derision, then strolled through the debris, jumped up onto the low windowsill and settled down. Oh dear. Had he just let in some stray? He thought about moving it outside and thought again. Heath liked cats but he preferred ones that didn’t hiss at him when he hadn’t even done anything. Apart from nearly trapping its tail. Could cats hold grudges? He sighed and looked around at the devastation.

It was hard to see the furniture under the piles of books, clothes, beer cans, food cartons and newspapers. Along with the clutter, there was a stale smell that he couldn’t identify. As long as it wasn’t a dead body, or a dead anything, including a mouse, he could cope. He had to cope.

He took another look around. Beneath all the mess, this was a spectacular flat. He stood in a large, airy room with a vaulted ceiling. At one end, three huge windows—and one cat—overlooked a landscape of rooftops with London’s city centre towers rising in the distance like alien castles. And the sleet had turned to snow. Not that it would settle when everywhere was so wet, but it looked pretty.

Heath imagined the flat with everything tidied away, the citrusy scent of polish in the air, maybe even the aroma of a Christmas tree, and his heart zinged. Returning this flat to its former glory would be his thanks for letting him stay. He looked forward to achieving that.

I am so pathetic.

Who looks forward to cleaning?

An anally retentive accountant, that’s who.

Except that made him sound boring and that wasn’t the case. Cleaning was a kind of therapy for him, born of when he was in different homes and needed to make things tidy and clean, clean and tidy. Rules in whichever place he’d lived. One very particular head of a children’s home in Epsom had led him to his room and told him— Make this place a palace. You only have to add an a. No way would a battered single bed, rickety desk and flowered curtains help to make anywhere look like a palace to a young boy, but Heath had done his best. He’d drawn on the walls and that had helped. Though not everyone agreed.

Maybe the rest of this un-palace would be less offensive. Fabian must have left in a hurry. No one would leave their home looking like this, would they? Plus, the heating was on which was a bit extravagant when you were away for two months. Heath had never left his former home without putting dirty pots in the dishwasher, switching off the lights and turning down the heating.

Mentally crossing his fingers, he went into the kitchen and immediately recoiled when he saw the state of it. Hopefully the bedroom would be better. He gingerly pushed open a fingerprint-smeared door to reveal a bed that looked as if a hippo had been rolling around in it, a carpet obscured by more clothes, piles of pizza boxes, beer cans and— oh really? Heath kicked the porn magazines under the bed. Maybe I’ll look at those later. After all, a male backside was a male backside. He could ignore the women’s bits.

The bathroom wasn’t too bad, though towels hung everywhere. The tub was huge, a freestanding claw-footed wonder with central taps, sitting under a stained-glass window. It made Heath long for a luxuriously lengthy soak—after he’d scrubbed it. A glass of wine and a hot bath would be his reward for cleaning the flat. He could buy some fairy lights to string up and make the place look Christmassy.

Maybe Fabian had to rush for his plane or something, and hadn’t had time to sort things out. To be fair, he didn’t know that he’d have a picky house sitter, or any house sitter at all, come to that. Presumably Stef hadn’t been since he’d left because she would have tidied up.

Once he’d stripped to his boxers and socks, he put his case in the bedroom and piled his wet things on top of it. No point putting on more clothes only to get them dirty while he made the flat shipshape. It wasn’t that he loved cleaning, not really, but he did like things to be neat and tidy and germ-free, so cleaning was a necessary evil, even without some house-mother lurking to tell him off for being a bad boy. At least there were plenty of products to use. Unopened bottles of stuff to deal with any household issue were piled up under the sink, along with pink rubber gloves, still in their packaging.

He filled rubbish bags with takeaway containers, beer cans, pizza boxes and newspapers, making sure he kept the recyclable items together.

Bundled up the bed sheets, trying not to look too hard at them. Yuk.

Loaded the washing machine. At least there were plenty of laundry tablets. Yay!

Freaked out at the three human fingers lurking at the bottom of the fridge. Arrgh!

Breathed a sigh of relief when he worked out they were very old carrots. Phew!

Cleaned the fridge. Sigh.

Twice. Double sigh.

Disposed of half the contents of the kitchen that were well past their sell-by dates. Dried basil from 2014? Baking soda from 2020. Really, Fabian?

Hung up Fabian’s cleanish-looking clothes and put the others in the empty laundry basket. And yes, he’d wash those too as a thank you.

When the floor was clear enough to hoover, he switched on the machine and the cat attacked him. Heath was so shocked that, for a moment, he didn’t react. Only when he was given a particularly nasty scratch down his chest, did he manage to throw his coat over the cat and get hold of it. He still held it at arm’s length so he could keep the snarling beast’s claws away from his body.

Heath switched off the hoover and the cat calmed down, though he wasn’t going to risk cuddling it. “Well, you should have told me you didn’t like the noise! You didn’t need to go straight into attack mode.”

He went over to the door, opened it and put the cat outside, pulling his coat free. It turned to look at him—was there anything more disconcerting than a cat that stared as if it was considering murder? —before it sauntered down the stairs. Maybe it wasn’t even Fabian’s cat. Heath had seen no sign of feeding bowls or a litter tray. And wouldn’t Stef have mentioned one? So not his cat. Shit. He went back inside, cleaned the scratch on his chest and carried on hoovering.

Heath dusted and polished, found fresh sheets for the bed, put another load of laundry in the machine, discovered three pounds and fifty-six pence worth of change eaten by the couch, and finally—hours later—slumped on a chair, looked around at a gleaming, tidy, gorgeous flat and realised he hadn’t thought about Diego once.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. One thing he’d picked up had made Heath think about him. A small blue box on the mantelpiece held the most beautiful white gold ring, with three inset diamonds. Lucky Stef. Heath felt bad that he knew before she did that Fabian intended to pop the question, and then fought a stab of jealousy that it wasn’t going to happen to him. Probably ever. A year of his life down the drain, though had he ever really thought Diego was The One ? Er… A few times, maybe. Mostly, he knew Diego wasn’t anywhere near The One. And vice versa. He really should have said no when Diego first asked him out. The one time no would have been the perfect response. Stop telling yourself that. But hindsight was of no help at all.

Unfortunately, once Diego had invaded his head, so did Benny. Bloody treacherous fucking arsehole of a bastardly deceitful piece of… Heath ran out of words. Well, more that he ran out of energy. Mental rage wasn’t helpful either. But it was one thing knowing positivity was the way to go, another actually taking that road when there were more tempting ones. I hope Benny’s business fucking collapses. The mean bastard.

Stop it! Heath took a deep breath. Benny was gone. So was Diego. Smile. So he did.

There were just a few more things he needed to do before he sank up to his ears in the now gleaming tub. He moved Fabian’s clothes to one side of the closet and hung up his own on the other. After a perfunctory wash—that was not good mascara—he pulled on his skinny jeans, T-shirt and jacket, slipped on his barely dry boots, then trailed up and down the stairs four times to take all the rubbish to the bins, along with his useless suitcase.

As he made his way to the shops, the snow was falling thickly and Heath felt like skipping. Yes, from now on life was going to be perfect. He had a lovely place to stay. He was going to buy some delicious food. He was going to make Christmas happen.

Yes, yes, yes.

Do not think about having to find a job and a more permanent place to live.

Don’t!

Well, he’d try.