Good Breeding Read online

  Giles smiled. Suddenly he felt around ten stone lighter.

  * * * *

  Angie beamed when she saw them the following week. “Wayne, love! I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon!” She turned to her daughter, who was sitting on the floor, fag in hand, filling out a sex survey in a magazine.”Didn’t I say, Shards, that he wouldn’t be round here again in a hurry, now he’s found out what a bunch of bleedin’ chavs we are?”

  Giles felt a nasty twinge of guilt. “Of course I came round again!” he protested. “You’re my mother! Oh—and this is Oz. He’s a very good friend of mine.” For some reason, Giles blushed as he said it. He flicked a glance at Oz, whose amused expression only made Giles’s face grow hotter.

  Angie gave him a hug. “Oh, it’s all right, love. You can call him your boyfriend, nobody minds here.”

  The sack of potatoes in the armchair gave a grunt, which Giles suspected was Pete-speak for “snog him at your peril.” The ape, thank God, was absent. Perhaps it’d been carted back to the zoo, Giles thought hopefully, then gave himself a mental slap on the wrist. “Really, Oz is just a friend,” Giles insisted. “We share a house, that’s all.”

  “Oh, get on with you! A good looking bloke like that? Well, if you don’t want him, I’ll ‘ave him!” Angie cackled. “You ‘ear that, Pete? I’m going to trade you in for a new model!”

  “Hrrn,” grunted Pete.

  Oz looked terrified.

  They sat down for a cup of tea. Giles was oddly touched to find his served in a mug with “Wayne” emblazoned on it in garish letters. “Well, i’n’t this nice?” Angie said.

  Giles opened his mouth to make a polite reply, but was interrupted by the slam of the front door. His brother, the ape, lumbered in, scratching its armpit. Its eyes narrowed when it saw them, and Giles instinctively huddled up to Oz for protection.

  “’Ullo, love. Our Wayne’s come round again, and he brung his boyfriend and all,” Angie said brightly.

  The ape scowled, and stepped towards them. Giles tensed.

  Oz laughed, and leant back, resting one ankle on the opposite knee. His arms spread along the back of the sofa, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, while his shirt was stretched taut over a rather fine pair of pecs. “Nah, it’s just your mum’s little joke.” Oz’s voice sounded different, Giles realised. His vowels were flatter; the consonants less defined. “Not that you’d have a problem with it if I was, would you?” Despite his seemingly relaxed posture, Oz didn’t take his eyes off Darren for an instant.

  The ape stared at him for a long moment, then subsided, and slumped into its chair. After a brief tussle with its father for the remote control, which it lost, it settled for glaring steadily at the television and totally ignoring them.

  “So have you got a bloke, then, love?” Angie asked brightly, as if massive amounts of testosterone had not just been expended in front of her.

  “Oh, yes. His name’s Hugh,” Giles began, with a fond smile. “I met him in my first year at Oxford, at a wine tasting.” He’d been instantly smitten by the man’s rakish good looks, perfectly tailored jacket, and theatrical shudders of distaste at most of what was served. “We got talking over some rather vile champagne, and Hugh invited me to the Beaujolais breakfast over at his college, and well, we’ve been together ever since.” He blushed a little at the memory of that morning. Hugh was reading Egyptology, which meant no lectures before noon—and then only on Thursdays—and Giles had been only too happy to skip his own classes to accept Hugh’s invitation to a post-breakfast rogering back at Merton.

  “He sounds lovely, doesn’t he, Shards? I hope he treats you right.”

  “Oh, Hugh’s a perfect gentleman,” Giles assured her. “We’ve had our ups and downs, but doesn’t everyone?” Hugh hadn’t spoken to him for weeks after Giles had been unwise enough to voice his opinion that the ban on foxhunting wasn’t such a very bad idea, all things considered. Then there had been the business about Hugh sleeping with the captain of the Varsity rugby team before the try-outs. Giles had been devastated at first. But after Hugh’s explanation, Giles had quite agreed it was simply the sensible thing to do—the rugger equivalent of the theatrical casting couch, so to speak—and nothing for him to be jealous about. “I’m seeing him tonight, actually—we’re going to the opera.”

  “What about you, then, Oz?” Angie asked. “I bet you’ve got someone and all, with looks like those.”

  Oz started. “Oh, me? No, I’m—no. Not at the moment.”

  Giles wasn’t sure he liked that “at the moment.” Did Oz have someone he fancied, then? Who was he? And why hadn’t Giles known about it? And who was he?

  “Never mind, love,” Angie consoled him. “I’m sure you’ll find someone. ‘Ere, Shards, you’re not seeing no one at the mo, are you?”

  Shards looked up from her article on STDs, and considered Oz for a long moment. “Nah. ‘E ain’t my type.”

  The ape wheezed.

  “My loss, then,” Oz said easily.

  Giles was impressed by the way he managed to keep even the barest hint of sarcasm from his voice.

  * * * *

  “Are you sure you’re going to be all right if I go out tonight?” Giles fretted as they made their way back home. “I can’t understand how Hugh managed to forget about your visit when he booked the tickets. It’s not like him at all.”

  Oz gave a funny sort of laugh. “No, he’s got a memory like an elephant, Hugh has,” he said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine with your parents.” He grinned suddenly. “Your mum said she’d get out your old baby photos to show me. And anyway, it’s La Boheme tonight, isn’t it? That’s your favourite—you can’t miss that.” He hesitated for a moment, staring straight ahead. “But I think you should use the opportunity to tell Hugh about Angie. He’s your boyfriend—he ought to know.”

  “He’s not going to be pleased,” Giles muttered darkly. “He doesn’t even know I’m adopted.”

  Oz stared. “He has met your parents, hasn’t he?”

  Giles flushed. “I think he just assumes Mummy had a bit on the side. It seems to be almost de rigueur amongst his parents’ set.”

  “Well, if he loves you,” Oz said, “he’ll accept you, whoever your parents are. Come on, you’re still the same bloke you were yesterday, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose so,” Giles said, brightening. Still, Giles couldn’t help feeling a little queasy at the thought of telling Hugh about his birth mother.

  * * * *

  Giles met Hugh in the foyer at Covent Garden. They only just made it into the theatre in time—Hugh had been having drinks with some friends and just hadn’t been able to get away—so they didn’t get a chance to speak until later.

  Not quite able to work up the courage to broach the subject of his parentage during the first interval, Giles listened instead to Hugh’s scorn at the vocal capabilities of the mezzo-soprano (a rather pleasant-looking lady, Giles had thought, but he supposed that didn’t really count for anything in opera). At the second interval, however, fortified by champagne, Giles forged ahead.

  “Hugh, I’m adopted,” he blurted out, inadvertently interrupting Hugh’s amusing anecdote about how he’d got one over on one of his father’s employees—but then, Giles had heard it twice already, so he had some excuse for not listening to Hugh as attentively as he otherwise would.

  “Are you? Good Lord!” Hugh didn’t look precisely pleased at the news.

  Giles swallowed. “And I’ve found my birth mother. I’ve been round to see her twice now. She’s married now, with two other children, and lives in Putney.”

  Hugh’s lip curled in distaste. Then he gave a forced-sounding laugh. “Still, never mind. I’m sure you’ll manage to lose her again.”

  “I don’t want to lose her!” Giles protested. “It’s not her fault she’s working class, and lives in a council house.”

  “For God’s sake, Giles,” Hugh hissed. “Keep your voice down, will you? Surely you don’
t want everyone hearing about your sordid origins?”

  “There’s nothing sordid about my origins,” Giles said stiffly. “Angie’s a lovely lady.”

  “Angie?” There was a subtle change in Hugh’s manner. “Giles… well, the fact is, I’ve been meaning to talk to you for some time. I don’t think it’s going to work out, you and me.”

  “What?” An icy chill suffused Giles’s body, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with the champagne.

  “And this only confirms it,” Hugh continued. “I’m sure you’d be happier with someone of your own kind.”

  Giles bristled. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Now, for God’s sake don’t go all Socialist Worker on me!”

  “Socialist Worker? Socialist bloody Worker? What the hell are you on about?” Giles could hear his voice rising in both pitch and volume, but was powerless to prevent it.

  “People of your class are always the same—”

  “’Scuse me, gents,” the barman broke in. “Would you mind keeping it down a bit? People are starting to complain.”

  Giles swung round to face him. “Then they can damn well keep their noses out of it! This is a private discussion between me and my—Hugh? Hugh?” He looked around frantically, but Hugh had gone. Back to their box? Yes, that was it. Giles should go and join him, and by the end of the last act they’d be all right again.

  When Giles got back to the box, it was empty. Reluctant to give up hope, Giles waited and waited. Mimi’s death scene seemed even more affecting than usual, Giles wasn’t sure why—he had tears streaming down his cheeks by the end. Hugh would mock him for it mercilessly—

  But Hugh wasn’t there.

  * * * *

  Oz was in the conservatory again when Giles got home. He seemed to have forsaken the Insanely Bad Elf in favour of one of Mummy’s bottles of Stoli. Giles slumped down beside him, and mutely held out his hand for the bottle of vodka.

  “Hugh dumped me,” he said, after a long swallow and a short coughing fit.

  “Bastard. I’ll scratch ‘Upper Class Twat of the Year’ into the side of his Merc with my keys, how about that?” Oz suggested.

  Giles groaned, and took another swig from the bottle of vodka. “Wasn’t it ‘Twit’, anyway? In the Monty Python sketch, I mean?”

  “Oh, who cares. I think Hugh’s more of a twat than a twit, don’t you?”

  Giles didn’t answer. Was Hugh really a… what Oz had said? Had Giles just wasted nearly two years of his life on… on… a front bottom? And why was he drinking vodka, anyway? He looked around the conservatory, whose walls kept tilting drunkenly. Ha. Stupid walls. Couldn’t hold their drink… “Where’s my whisky?”

  “Gone,” Oz said happily, holding up not one but two empty bottles of Scotch.

  On closer examination Giles realised that there were two Ozzes as well. “Bugger.”

  “Yeah, I could just scratch that into the car instead, that’d work. Be quicker, too. Less chance of getting caught. G’is the vodka.”

  Giles held out the bottle, wondering which of the two Ozzes would get to it first. The answer, as it happened, was neither.

  “I think I’ll take that, darling.”

  “Mummy?” Giles looked up and began to snigger. “I’ve got two mummies!” His face fell. “And no boyfriend,” he finished dolefully.

  “Oh, darling,” Mummy sighed. “I’m so sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “’S all right, Mrs F. I’ll look after him.” Oz put a brawny arm around Giles’s shoulder, the gesture of solidarity only slightly undermined by his explosive, eighty-proof belch in Giles’s face.

  Mummy smiled. In fact, both of her did. “In that case, I’ll leave you boys to it. Now, I’ve brought you each a pint of water, so don’t even think of going to bed before you drink it.”

  She left, and Oz took a swig of water. He gave another belch, this one slightly less flammable. “I’ve never thought Hugh was good enough for you. I was at school with him, you know.”

  “Oh?” Giles hiccupped. “Pardon me. He’s never mentioned you being friends.”

  “Yeah, well, he wouldn’t, would he? ’Cause we weren’t. Catch him being matey with the scholarship boy,” Oz added, his tone suddenly bitter.

  Giles stared, as the words filtered through his befuddled brain. Oz’s voice sounded different, too. Just like it had at Angie’s.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Oz said, sticking his chin out. “I got in on a scholarship, ’cause no way could my mum and dad afford to send me to private school.”

  “Why are you talking funny?” Giles asked.

  Oz laughed, but it wasn’t a very happy sound. “I’m not. I’ve just stopped talking funny. See, you take a lad from a council estate and send him to some posh school, he’s either going to start talking posh like the rest of them or get his bloody teeth kicked in. This is how I grew up talking.” He stopped, and swigged some more water. “You know where I grew up? Not ten streets away from your real mum. The chav.” His arm slipped from around Giles’s shoulder, and he sat rigidly, staring into the blackness of the garden.

  Giles’s head was spinning. “I don’t—I think—” He lurched to a standing position. “I think I need to go to bed.”

  * * * *

  Next morning, Giles woke up slumped face down on top of his bed, wearing only his shirt, which was bunched up under his armpits, and one sock. The cup of tea cooling by his bedside quelled any hopes that Mummy might not have been in and seen him in such a humiliating state.

  Levering himself painfully upright, Giles drank the lukewarm, stewed tea. He dressed, and then staggered, shame-faced and heavy-headed, downstairs. Oz was sitting moodily at the kitchen table, glaring at a half-eaten slice of toast. Giles’s stomach lurched in sympathy. “I’ve been a total arse, haven’t I?” Giles said, taking a seat opposite his friend. They both winced as the chair scraped ear-splittingly on the terracotta tiles.

  Oz gave him a weak smile. “Not a total arse. Half an arse, maybe. A single buttock.” His voice was back to normal.

  Giles wasn’t sure he liked it. “You don’t have to pretend to be posh for me,” he said, trying to smile.

  Oz shrugged. “Sometimes even I don’t know which is my real accent any more.” He gave a twisted smile. “So you’re still speaking to me, now you know I’m a chav?”

  “If you’re still speaking to me,” Giles said. He rested his head in his hands. “I’m an idiot. A selfish, snobbish idiot. Who’s been wasting his time with another selfish, snobbish idiot. And all this time you and I have been friends—sharing a house, even—and I didn’t even bother to find out the first thing about you.”

  Oz was suddenly looking much more cheerful. He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? You reckon? What’s my favourite food?”

  “Chinese, from the place down the road,” Giles said immediately. “You like the sweet ‘n sour pork balls and the deep fried crispy beef, but you think they’re unhealthy so half the time you order chicken chow mein and monks’ vegetables instead.”

  “Favourite film?”

  “My Best Friend’s Wedding, obviously.”

  “TV show?”

  “Being Human, or anything else with Aidan Turner in it, because you fancy him like mad. Especially when he hasn’t shaved recently.” Giles blinked. “You know, at this rate, we could go on Mr and Mrs.”

  Oz laughed. “Exactly! That’s just what I’m talking about—where you come from is only one part of you. It’s who you really are that’s important. That’s something that wanker Hugh will never understand. You deserve more than to be some posh tosser’s trophy boyfriend.”

  “What?” Giles stared. “Me? A trophy? But I’m just…”

  “Just what?”

  Giles sighed. “Short. Stupid. Snobbish. And hairier than an entire flange of gorillas.”

  Oz laughed again, and Giles gave him a hurt look. “You forgot to mention one thing.”

  “What?”

  “You�
�re also a bit of a berk sometimes. Okay, you’re not the tallest bloke around, but you’re gorgeous, and if you hadn’t been brainwashed by that prick Hugh you’d know it.”

  Giles found he was blinking rapidly. “You think I’m gorgeous? Really?”

  “’Course I do. And you’re funny—all right, not always intentionally—and you really care about people, despite having spent the last couple of years in extremely bad company.”

  “I do?” Giles hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

  “Yes. You do.” Oz hesitated, then stretched his hand across the table to cover Giles’s. “Some of us were sort of hoping you might care about us in particular.”

  “They were? I mean, you were?” Still tussling with the third/second person problem, Giles’s brain finally caught up to the import of what Oz had said. “You mean—”

  “Yeah. Look, I know you’re on the rebound from Hugh, and I’m not quite who you thought I was, but maybe, in a couple of months, if you’re ready—”

  Oz broke off abruptly as Giles launched himself across the table to silence his friend with a clumsy yet enthusiastic kiss. “I’m ready,” he said fervently.

  “Sure? Because—”

  Feeling, in the circumstances, that actions spoke louder than words, Giles locked their lips together once more, and enthusiastically set about showing Oz just how very ready he was.

  So what if they were a couple of chavs by birth? Giles knew good breeding when he saw it.

  Or at least, he would do, just as soon as their hangovers wore off.

  THE END

  * * * *

  About J.L. Merrow

  J.L. Merrow is that rare beast, an English person who refuses to drink tea. She read Natural Sciences at Cambridge, where she learned many things, chief amongst which was that she never wanted to see the inside of a lab ever again. Her one regret is that she never mastered the ability of punting one-handed whilst holding a glass of champagne.

  She writes across genres, with a preference for contemporary gay romance and the paranormal, and is frequently accused of humour. Find her online at jlmerrow.com.

  About JMS Books LLC

  Founded in 2010, JMS Books LLC is owned and operated by author J.M. Snyder. We publish a variety of genres, including gay erotic romance, fantasy, young adult, poetry, and nonfiction. Short stories and novellas are available as e-books and compiled into single-author print anthologies, while stories over 30k in length may go into print. Visit us at jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!