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  Result. Con blushed. Yeah, he hadn’t forgotten that time Patrick had tried to chat him up. Course, what with the broken leg and being in hospital, Patrick had been a bit off his game at the time. More to the point, he’d been too slow off the mark—Con had already fallen for Shamwell’s biggest drama queen. Sorry, professional actor.

  “Oi, what’ve you said to Con? His face is clashing with his shirt something chronic.” Heather sat down with a wicked smile and pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, showing off her slim, tan forearms. She was a pretty girl, in a natural sort of way—she didn’t wear much makeup, and she never straightened her hair—and a decent actor. Patrick had been in quite a few Sham-Drams productions with her. “Hope you’re not talking dirty to him while his bloke’s not here.”

  “Nah, just telling him about Mark.”

  “Mark?” Heather raised an eyebrow at Patrick.

  “New Spartan,” he explained.

  “New gay Spartan, Patrick reckons,” Con threw in. “And he fancies him.”

  “Oh my God! So who is he, then? And hang on, he fancies you, or you fancy him? Or both?” She peered at the bar. “I can’t see anyone I don’t know except that tall bloke talking to Barry… Oh my God, is it him? Isn’t he a bit, well, old for you? When did you get into Daddy kink?”

  Patrick laughed and gave her a one-fingered salute. “Just ’cos he’s a bit older than me doesn’t make it a kink. That’s ageist, that is.”

  “Yeah, but I mean, what is he? Late thirties? Forty? That’s like your mum’s age. Actually, you know what? I could totally see him with your mum. You should introduce them. Maybe he’s bi.”

  “Mum’s forty-four. And she can find her own blokes, all right?” And frequently did—a bit too frequently for Patrick’s liking.

  Maybe Heather was thinking the same thing. “Yeah, but they’re all such total losers. I mean, no offence, but your mum’s taste in men is bleedin’ tragic. So what’s he doing in Shamwell, then, this not-a-Daddy-kink bloke?”

  Patrick shrugged. “Dunno. I missed the start of the meeting where he introduced himself.”

  “So go chat him up now and find out, then.”

  “Nah. I think I’ll wait. I’ll be seeing more of him anyway.” He laughed. “If he makes it to the induction ceremony, I’ll be seeing a lot more of him.”

  Heather giggled. “Make sure you tell me when it is, all right? I don’t want to miss it.”

  “Why—you got a thing for older blokes in leather skirts?”

  “It’s not the skirt that does it for me. It’s the fact that’ll be all he’s wearing. He looks like he’s pretty fit, for an old bloke.”

  Con frowned. “That’s all they get to wear, is it? Gonna be a bit nippy, this time of year.”

  “He’ll have a cloak on too,” Patrick said, a bit distracted himself by the image. Yeah, this Mark bloke would look a damn sight better than most of the lads did in the Spartan getup. He’d had nightmares about some of the beer-guts… “And there’s the helmet.”

  “Ooh, yeah, don’t forget that,” Heather said. “I’m looking forward to seeing his helmet.”

  Con choked on his pint.

  Patrick grinned. “And his six-foot weapon. Don’t forget that.”

  “Is he gonna be poking people with it?” she shot back.

  “Fancy a poke from him, do you? Even though he’s old enough to be your dad?” Patrick added pointedly, and took a mouthful of beer.

  “Oi, I thought you said he was gay?” Con interrupted. “Sorry, Hev, looks like you’re out of luck.”

  “Bum.” Heather made an exaggerated frown face.

  Patrick put his glass down on the table. “What I said was, I reckon he fancies me. Maybe he goes for women too. Course, if you want to have to explain to Chris you’re planning on cheating on him with some bloke you’ve never even spoken to…”

  “And who’s old enough to be her dad,” Con put in, a bit unhelpfully to Patrick’s mind. He’d already said that, hadn’t he? There was no need to keep going on about the bloke’s age.

  She pouted. “Hey, maybe me and Chris have got an open relationship?”

  Patrick laughed. “So that was some other girl I heard the other night threatening to cut his bollocks off with a spoon if he didn’t stop looking at the new barmaid’s tits?”

  He glanced over at the bar automatically—and caught Mark’s gaze on him again. There was something in the bloke’s eyes Patrick couldn’t read, not that he got more than a nanosecond before Mark looked away. Did he know they’d been talking about him? Nah, he couldn’t have heard anything.

  Still, Patrick felt a bit bad about it, somehow. It had to be hard, starting fresh in a new place—especially such a small village, where everyone knew everyone else. Maybe he should do a bit more to make the bloke feel welcome.

  Maybe he’d suggest they pair up for the pub crawl. Yeah, that was it. He’d do that. Now would be a good time. Patrick took another swallow of his beer and put his glass back down. He was just about to tell Con and Heather he’d be back in a minute, when Heather glanced up, surprised. “Your bloke’s leaving.”

  “Yeah?” Patrick looked round again. Mark was already halfway to the door, shrugging his overcoat on as he walked. It was a classic style and looked good on him—he had the height to carry it off.

  And Patrick had just lost the chance of going over to talk to him. Well, if he tried to catch him now, he’d just look daft.

  He could wait.

  “Um,” Heather said, looking worried. “You don’t think he knew we were talking about him, do you?”

  Patrick frowned, then shrugged. “Not a lot we can do about it now, is there?”

  Still, he’d make a point of asking the bloke about the three-legged pub crawl next time he saw him. Make sure he felt welcome here.

  They ended up staying until closing time. It was ten minutes’ walk back to the little house Patrick shared with his mum on the edge of the Hillside estate—just long enough for the night-time chill to seep through his leather jacket and almost make him wish he’d worn that naff woolly scarf his mum had made in her one and only attempt at knitting and had wrapped up for him as a gag gift for Christmas.

  Even the neighbour’s cat’s fur felt cold as he stroked it with one hand, fumbling for his keys with the other. They had a brief stare-off when he opened the door—the cat knew it wasn’t allowed in, but it never stopped chancing its paw—then it flicked its tail and stalked off. For some reason, it reminded him of Mark, and an unwelcome surge of guilt made Patrick kick off his Nikes on the doormat with a bit more force than necessary. He hadn’t meant to make the bloke feel uncomfortable. Ah, what the hell. He’d make it up to him.

  Patrick hung up his jacket and padded into the living room, where his mum was snuggled up on their squashy yellow sofa in her penguin pyjamas with a glass of wine, her bobbed, straw-blonde hair all damp at the ends. She smiled as he walked in.

  “Hello, love. Have a good evening?”

  “All right.” Patrick threw himself down on the sofa next to her, then frowned as the comedian on the telly let out a massively annoying, braying laugh. Fingernails down the blackboard of the nation’s souls, that laugh was. “What are you watching that git for? He’s that one who was in the papers for not paying his taxes—earned millions and tied it all up in offshore trusts so he could cheat the rest of us poor sods.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like he did anything illegal,” Mum said, gesturing with her glass. “And anyway, he’s funny.”

  “You won’t be laughing when they close down your department because the hospital budget’s been slashed. He’s the one laughing, with his one percent tax bill, and the rest of us are the bloody joke. Bastards like that don’t give a toss about anyone else.” Patrick grabbed the remote and changed channels.

  “You’re all grumpy. What happened at the Spartans? They
didn’t vote to let women in, did they?” she added sarcastically.

  Mum could be a bit funny about all-male things. Patrick blamed his dad, which was easy ’cos he never saw the bastard and hadn’t since he was thirteen. Hadn’t wanted to either.

  “I’m not grumpy.” Patrick realised he was frowning and made an effort to stop. He was way too young for Botox. “It just pisses me off when people don’t pay their way, that’s all. All these MPs moaning about benefit cheats and making people jump through hoops to get the money they need to live on, when it’s a drop in the ocean compared to all these rich bastards and corporations making millions and paying no tax at all.”

  “There are some people who cheat the system, as you well know.” Mum gave him a pointed look and took a sip of wine.

  “Yeah, and you can leave Dad out of this. I’m talking about the innocent majority who just get tarred with the same brush.”

  Instead of arguing, Mum just gave him a sympathetic smile. “Bad day at work, love?”

  Trust her. She always could read him like she’d downloaded him onto her Kindle.

  “Yeah. Sorry.” He sighed. “You know I’ve been trying to get sponsors for this fun run? I rang up that big pharmaceuticals company in Stortford, and they were all keen on helping out the disabled—until they found out SHARE’s a charity for the mentally disabled and worse, adults. Then all of a sudden it’s Sorry, I’m afraid we’ve exhausted our budget for this year, but we’ll definitely keep it in mind for the future. Load of bollocks. He’s fine with helping cute kids in wheelchairs—or even cute kids with Down’s—but once they grow up, they can just sod off. Don’t fit the corporate image.”

  “Poor love. Didn’t Spartans cheer you up, though?”

  “Well, yeah, but then I get home to find that smug git on the telly,” Patrick teased, leaning back and stretching out his legs. “There was a new bloke at the meeting tonight. Think he’s into me.”

  Mum sighed dramatically. “What it is to be young and beautiful. Where’s all the decent straight blokes gone, that’s what I want to know?”

  Patrick grinned. “No such animal. You told me that years ago.”

  “Yeah, but that was when I was young and bitter.”

  “Instead of old and bitter like you are now?”

  She chucked a cushion at his head. Patrick caught it with a smirk and tucked it behind his neck.

  Mum hmphed. “I’ll have less of that, my lad. I’m not old. I’m just…less young. And less bitter. Mellow and mature, that’s me.”

  “What, like a lump of cheddar cheese? Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Mum.” Patrick paused. “Hypothetically speaking, what would you think about me going out with a bloke who was mature?”

  “I’d think he was a dirty old man leading my little baby boy astray. Hypothetically speaking.” She gave him a sharp look.

  “Mum, I’m twenty-five. I haven’t needed leading astray for years.”

  “Maybe not, but what d’you want to go out with some old fart for? I know it’s been a while since you’ve had a proper relationship, and I know I go on at you for being too picky, but that doesn’t mean you have to drop your standards completely. You just need to get out more. Have a night out in London or something. Go on Grindr—”

  “Mum! First, I dunno what you think you know about Grindr, but it’s not about finding a relationship, okay? And I’m not dropping my standards. Just ’cos he’s a bit older than me doesn’t mean he’s a loser.” Shit, Mum had that glint in her eye that meant an interrogation about the “hypothetical” old fart was coming. Patrick decided it’d be safest to go on the attack. “Anyway, you can talk. What about that dustman you went out with just because he asked you? That bloke was rank.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with working in refuse collection.”

  “I never said there was. Just, next time pick a bloke who actually bothers to have a shower once in a while, okay? I still can’t believe you let him get within five feet of you.”

  “We didn’t kiss much or anything. I had a cold at the time, all right?” Mum topped up her glass. “It took me a while to notice.”

  “It took me thirty seconds. And I was standing upwind.” Patrick stood up and stretched. “Gonna get an early night. Today was a killer.”

  “Not so fast, my lad.” Mum shot out a leg covered in mini penguins to bar his way.

  True, he could have stepped over it, but… Patrick gave in. It usually saved hassle in the long run. “What?”

  “This mature bloke. You going to tell me about him, or do I have to start stalking you online again?”

  Patrick laughed. “I hope you’re better at it now than when I was fifteen. That was embarrassing, that was. There’s nothing to tell. Seriously. He’s a bit older than me, and he’s just come along to the Spartans for the first time.”

  “How much older? And what does he do for a living? He’d better not be married,” she added darkly.

  “Don’t know, don’t know, don’t think so. His name’s Mark. And now you literally know as much as I do.” Patrick yawned, hoping she’d get the hint.

  Mum’s leg didn’t budge. “Well, if you really like him, flippin’ well ask him out before someone else snaps him up. There was that bloke you liked last year—that one with the muscles, remember him?—and you missed the boat on that one.”

  Patrick smiled despite himself. “You mean Con, right? Nah, it wouldn’t have worked out, me and him. Just as well I never got around to asking him out till it was too late. Him and Tris are a great couple.”

  “You always say that, but just ’cos they find someone else doesn’t mean it wouldn’t have worked with you. It just means they got fed up waiting.”

  “Worried I’m going to end up left on the shelf? Well, I can see your point. Not a very safe place to be—not if you put it up, anyhow.”

  Mum glared at him. “I’ll have you know I’m very good at putting up shelves. Not my fault they put the water pipe in the wrong place.”

  Patrick laughed. “Yeah, right. Anyhow, I’m off to bed. Don’t go starting any more DIY projects, will you?”

  “What, at nearly midnight? No chance. I’ll get you up nice and early in the morning for it, all right?”

  “You do and you can expect a few choice words from your little baby boy. Night, Mum.”

  “Night, darling. Sleep tight.”

  Patrick padded up the stairs and pushed open his door. He’d been fifteen, nearly sixteen, when they’d moved here, Mum wanting a fresh start, so there wasn’t a lot to remind him of his childhood in his room. He’d been old for his years, anyway, he reckoned, what with Dad being…the way he was. Mum had let him decorate the room how he liked it, so it was in rich, deep blues. Made a good contrast to the rest of the house, which she’d done in bright, aggressively cheerful tones.

  They’d toned it down a bit since then, but the first year they’d lived there, the place had looked like it was on acid, all lime green and orange.

  She’d even let Patrick get a double bed, the twin of hers down the hall. Not that his bed had seen a lot of action over the years. Patrick hadn’t taken a vow of celibacy or anything—far from it—but he didn’t bring anyone home if he wasn’t one hundred percent certain about them.

  As he laid his head on his pillow, Patrick wondered what it’d be like to have Mark lying next to him. Then he laughed silently.

  Mum’d probably tar and feather the poor bloke for taking advantage of her little baby boy.

  Chapter Three

  Mark left the pub early after the Spartans meeting. He wasn’t entirely happy leaving his daughter alone for too long—and if he was honest, Patrick’s little group of friends over in the corner wasn’t making him feel any more relaxed, what with all the laughter and the frequent glances in his direction.

  He hadn’t, of course, been disappointed to see Patrick make a beeline for th
e tall and ruggedly handsome young man sitting on his own. To have been disappointed would have implied he’d had some hopes in Patrick’s direction which, obviously, he didn’t.

  And equally clearly, once the pretty, dark-skinned girl had joined them, Mark hadn’t listened to Barry with only half an ear as he tried to work out who, if anyone, was with whom. Patrick and the other young man certainly hadn’t seemed to be acting like a couple—at least, not like the couples Mark had seen in his few furtive forays into London’s gay scene after splitting up with Ellen.

  They—the forays, not the couples, about whom he wouldn’t presume to judge—hadn’t been particularly successful, either in terms of romance or of coming to terms with his “new” identity. Most of them had left him feeling like that schoolteacher—usually the PE teacher, for some reason—who tried to be cool by dancing with the kids at the school disco, while everyone laughed at him behind his back. Not to mention, he’d been paranoid he might bump into David, his PA. It’d been a revelation, though, seeing young men in their teens and early twenties casually kiss one another on the street after a night out. Had things really changed so much in the last twenty years? Mark couldn’t imagine daring to kiss a boy on the street at a similar age. Of course, he’d still been trying to make a go of it with girls back then. If kissing boys had seemed more acceptable, his whole life might have been different. He might never have gone on holiday with Ellen—the holiday that turned out to have such lasting consequences.

  He couldn’t regret the way his life had gone—after all, it had brought him Florence. But it would have been nice not to have felt so alone. Even now, Mark’s gaydar seemed to be perennially on the blink. In his youth, coupled with a crippling lack of self-belief, it had been nonexistent. The only gay man he’d been reliably certain he’d known had been so stereotypically camp, he’d been known locally as Ray the Gay.

  Mark winced at the memory. Yes, a bit of generally accepted on-the-street kissing would definitely have helped there. At least, if it could have taken place without upping the hate crime statistics. Not, of course, that hate crime had been a recognised offence back then. Sometimes Mark felt like he’d grown up in the Dark Ages.