“In the kitchen?”
Nero spun around in his chair. “I s’pose. I mean, he’s smashing it, considering he ain’t trained, but it’s not enough for him. If he’s gonna be with me—er, here for a while, he’s gotta have something else to do.”
Tom hummed thoughtfully. “I honestly don’t know how long he’s going to need refuge. I spoke to the police today, but they weren’t very cooperative.”
Coppers? Fuck’s sake. Nero didn’t need that shit, but held his tongue, hoping Tom would answer the questions Nero had spared Lenny.
“And I don’t blame Lenny for wanting to keep his head down,” Tom went on. “Being in his situation, with no support, must be terrifying. Perhaps a distraction . . . an occupation would be helpful . . .”
Tom trailed off, clearly speculating. Nero waited, his brain whirring at a thousand miles an hour. Tom seemed to think Nero knew it all, but it was fast becoming obvious that he knew nothing about the vibrant, frightened man sleeping on his couch. He pictured Lenny on the fire escape a few weeks ago, smoking, drinking, laughing . . . and too afraid to let the moonlight touch his face. Anger surged in Nero’s dark heart, and then the unique pain that came with sadness. Whatever had happened—was still happening—to Lenny, there was no doubt in Nero’s soul that he didn’t deserve it.
Not like you.
“Nero?”
Nero blinked. He’d forgotten about Tom pontificating in the background. “What?”
“I said, what about getting him to work on the art for the Vauxhall project? Cass wants it to be pretty urban and grungy, and I know Lenny’s handy with a spray paint can.”
“Oh yeah? Howd’ya know that?”
“Because I’m not a bloody idiot. Do you honestly think someone sprays pink paint all over one of my restaurants without me knowing about it?”
Nero didn’t have an answer to that. “What are you doing with the walls at Vauxhall? Leaving them bare brick?”
“I’m not sure about the kitchen, but certainly in the dining areas, though they’ll need brightening up, which hopefully Lenny can help us with. I like the work he did at Misfits, and I’m interested to see what he can do for us in Vauxhall, if he wants to, at least. You may find he’s not feeling particularly creative right now. Keep me posted.”
Tom said his good-byes and hung up, leaving Nero to ponder his proposal as he drifted back to the kitchen and floated through service while his thoughts remained elsewhere. It was ten o’clock when Lenny left the grill and came to his side.
“Did I fuck it up?”
“Hmm?” Nero glanced up from drizzling herb oil around a plate of paprika-hot mackerel. “Fuck what up?”
“I don’t know, everything? You haven’t spoken to me all night.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t care, but don’t ever say nothing, Nero. Silence is too loud.”
Nero’s hand wobbled, and shiny green oil dripped over the plate’s rim. Fuck this shit. He passed Lenny the plate. “Finish that for me, will you?”
Lenny obeyed and called for service, sending the final table of the night while Nero stood with his tongue tied to the roof of his mouth. What was it about Lenny that rendered him so fucking mute?
Lenny wiped his hands on his jacket—an unforgivable habit in anyone else. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? You must be sick of the sight of me. I’ll try and stay out of your way a bit more.”
“What?”
Lenny shrugged, chewing on his lip. “I’m under your feet all the time, at home, at work. Must be driving you up the wall, especially with me taking over your living room. Got nowhere to go without me in your face, have you?”
Nero couldn’t remember ever having so much company, but his usual cravings for peace and quiet had been oddly absent recently. On the rare occasions he and Lenny had been apart, he’d found himself missing the inevitable warmth Lenny stirred in his belly. “Mate, I’m not fed up with you, I’m worried about you.”
“Why?”
“A few weeks ago because Cass asked me to be. Now ’cause I give a shit.”
“I meant what am I doing to worry you?”
“Oh.” Daft twat. Nero turned away, gathering trays and utensils to take to the pot wash.
