Petey Boy pursed his lips. “That’s part of it.”
“Being gay?”
“To be fair, no, not that. But they have a very set idea of how I should live my life. I never wanted the life they offered, and they’ve never really forgiven me for it. But then, I’ve never forgiven my father for defending a lot of the #MeToo accused, so I guess disappointment is my family’s love language.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. My father had been chaotic and irresponsible and frustrating, but I knew he’d have supported me, no matter what I chose to do with my life. Of course, if he’d been less chaotic and more responsible, I might still be doing what I chose to do with my life, rather than what he was supposed to be doing with his.
“Dub-Dub!” Horatio Blunt’s voice boomed across the pub, and I flinched. I sensed him moving towards me like an oil slick. Petey Boy’s hand went to my knee under the table.
“Are you OK?”
I spoke quickly, through gritted teeth. “It’s someone I’d rather not—” A hand landed on my shoulder. “Horatio!” I turned to face him.
“Lovely to see you, Dub-Dub. I was hoping I’d bump into you.”
“Were you?” Of course he was. Not only had I threatened him with the undertaker if he turned up at home again, but the TV company had security on the gates, and they weren’t letting anyone through—especially twats—so stalking me in the village was his best hope of getting to me.
“I thought you might come in for the big game. Mind if I join you?”
“Actually, we’re waiting for?—”
But he had already slithered into Bramley’s seat.
“I won’t take up much of your time.”
I mouthed an apology to Petey Boy. He squeezed my knee. Horatio extended a greasy hand towards him.
“Horatio Blunt. Old school chum of William’s.”
“Peter Topham,” Petey Boy said, shaking the offered mitt.
“I say, no relation to the KC, are you?” Horatio looked him up and down, taking in the hair, the ear stud, the boiler suit, and answered his own question. “No, I suppose not. Still, thoroughly sound chap. Helped my poor father out of a spot of bother a few years ago. What’s gotten into all these secretaries, hey?”
It was my turn to squeeze Petey Boy’s knee under the table. His hand held mine. It was deeply comforting.
“My clients have upped their offer,” Horatio murmured into my ear. He slipped a piece of paper onto the table.
“My answer is the same.”
“Come on, Dub-Dub. Take a look.”
“I don’t need to look at it.”
Petey Boy leant into my ear. “Are you OK? Do you want me to get him chucked out?”
I was grateful but said I could handle it.
“Fair enough, Dub-Dub,” Horatio said. “If you need a little longer to come round, that’s absolutely fine.” He leant in closer, the heat of his breath on my ear. “It won’t be long now. In my experience, once someone sells their family’s dignity, it’s not long before they’re willing to sell their family’s heritage too. You’ve got my number. Call me any time, old chum.”
Outrage boiled up inside me. “Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”
Horatio frowned, pretending to be innocent. “I’m not the bad guy, Dub-Dub. I’m the man who holds in his hands the obvious answer to all your problems. I’m here to help.”
Petey Boy’s hand pressed into my shoulder, and I realised I’d been rising out of my chair, my fists clenched. I’m not a violent person. I’ve never thumped anyone in my life. But Horatio Blunt could well have been the first.
“Time to piss off, mate,” Petey Boy said, standing up—all six and a half feet of him unfolding to tower over my old school bully—and looking ready to start a pub brawl.
Horatio laughed like this was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen. “And who the bloody hell are you? His nanny?”
