“Well, that’s not surprising. You were only saying the other day how he’s living his best life with his new man.”
“Yes, but normally he’ll answer his phone. I’ve been ringing him for three days now and haven’t managed to get him.”
He sighs, and my pulse picks up. “Do you think there’s anything wrong?”
The hesitation on the other end of the line confirms it, and my grip on my phone tightens as I think of Gideon’s little brother. He’s sweet and dreamy and, despite having a bad stutter when he was little, he’s surprisingly sparky if pushed. He’s as dear to me as my own brothers, and the thought of anything happening to him makes me feel a bit sick.
“You’re not telling me something,” I say with the certainty of someone who knows him inside out. “What is it?”
He sighs. “I don’t know. It’s just this boyfriend.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing on paper. He’s a successful artist, good-looking bloke, and well off. He just …”
“What?”
“He pings my buttons,” he mutters, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “He’s very controlling. When I met him, he absolutely monopolized the conversation and wouldn’t let Milo get a word in edgeways.”
“How was Milo with that?”
“Accepting. Too accepting.” He pauses. “You and I both know that although he stuttered as a kid, he’s an opinionated little bugger underneath the shyness.” I smile because Milo’s ability to wind up Gideon when he was little was very endearing. The smile dies as he keeps talking. “And he put him down all the time. Subtle little digs that I soon put a stop to, but I didn’t like the way Milo reacted.”
“How was that?”
He pauses. “Hedidn’treact, if that doesn’t sound too weird. It was like he was so used to someone talking to him like shit that it hardly registered anymore.”
“What do you want?” I say slowly. “I know it’s something, Gideon. It’s the only time you ring me.”
There’s a silence on the other end of the phone, but I know he’ll ignore the barb of anger in my tone. He always does. Finally, he speaks, and I was right. His tone is even and logical. “I need you to go round to the flat.”
“Really? That’s not going to go down too well.”
“See how it goes. Just check up on him and let me know how things are. I’m stuck in Romania and I’ll get the fucking sack if I decide to leave the set. The director’s already got it in for me.”
“Could that be anything to do with the cheery warmth of your personality?” I murmur, hearing him laugh. I exhale loudly, feeling the sting of wanting to hurt him riding me under the skin. “So, you want me to leave the bloke I’ve got lined up for tonight and go to a complete stranger’s flat and try to assess the state of your family’s dirty laundry?”
“Please,” he says. “For me.”
This always works and he bloody knows it, and for a wild moment I want to reach through the phone and throttle him. Then I remember Milo and I know I can’t. He’s as much my little brother as he is Gideon’s.
“Okay, I’ll do it. Shoot me the address.”
An hour later I stand outside the place where Milo is living. I look up and whistle. If his boyfriend’s got a place here, he must have some money because property in Chelsea isn’t cheap.
I try the front door and look around when I find it locked. Spying a rack of brass buttons next to little labels, I search for the name Thomas Dawley, but before I can press it the door opens and a lady appears holding the leads of four very lively Chihuahuas. Seizing the chance while she’s distracted, I hold the door open for her and then slip inside the building.
Inside the lobby, it’s hushed and smells of floor polish and the scent from a huge vase of gardenias. There’s a concierge desk but it’s empty with the seat pushed back as if the occupant has just gone somewhere, so I make straight for the bank of lifts. They whisk me upstairs with the quiet hush that money buys. Perish the thought that the machinery might disturb the wealthy people’s minds.
I find the door of Milo’s apartment easily and go to knock but pause as I hear raised voices from inside. I lean closer to the door, but when I rest my hand against the wood it falls open as it’s on the latch.
I step inside. The flat is gorgeous with high ceilings and tall windows, but my attention is solely on the raised voices from the kitchen. I frown. Make that one raised voice and it isn’t the low, soft tones of Milo.
The voice carries on, rising and falling in a hectoring fashion, and before I even know it my feet have carried me to the doorway where I pause, stunned by what I’m seeing.
Milo is leaning back into the kitchen cabinets, every muscle in his body seeming to scream that he’d be happy if he could seep into the wood behind him and disappear.
The last time I saw him he was full of life. His hair had been shiny and crazily long, but it had suited him. He’s always had a quirky way of dressing that’s somehow just him. Now, his hair is cut short and it’s greasy and lank. He must also be a fucking stone lighter, and he could ill afford to lose a pound in the first place as he’s naturally slender. His cheekbones are now juts of bone over hollowed cheeks.
