Jake sprayed his laughter. How Cassian loved to see him laugh! The sound cracked the air around him like music. ‘Only thing your sister studies is the form of the runners and riders at Kempton!’
‘I know that. But she gets away with it.’
‘For now. But it’ll all come to light when she has to sit exams, or her report gets sent home.’ Jake pointed out the obvious.
‘I guess so.’ He didn’t like the thought of the fallout of that. Not only because he didn’t want his little sister to have to deal with it, but also he knew that his mum and dad could do without another thing to fret over.
‘It’s true, Cass. People can live however they want but trying to cover up the truth is like putting leaves over a body – eventually the wind or an inquisitive dog comes along and exposes it. Things don’t stay hidden.’
‘Is that right? Wind or inquisitive dogs? Who knew?’ He smiled, knowing Jake referred to them as a couple and how it was only a matter of time before the world knew ... It was a thought that both terrified and delighted him. It was a conversation they revisited time after time, with him quite unable to put into words just how scared he was of opening up. How would his family react? But the idea of not having to pretend ... well, that would be a dream.
Jake spoke softly. ‘We need to tell people, Cass.’ Reaching out, he ran his fingers over Cassian’s forearm, a brief touch that was electric. ‘I don’t want to have to wait for an inquisitive dog to come along. I want to tell the world, tell our families. I don’t want to have to hide anymore.’
‘It’s not that simple, things are—’
‘It’s never that simple!’ Jake cut him off. ‘Never. There will always be an event, a distraction, a reason, an excuse, an anniversary, an issue. There’s no perfect time. Only now.’
‘It’s not easy.’ He shook his head at the understatement.
‘Nothing worth having is easy. But I love you and it’s a good, good thing, Cass!’
‘It is.’ He smiled at the face of the man who made everything seem wonderful, wishing he shared his confidence when it came to telling the world. ‘I will try. I’ll take my lead from you.’
‘Oh, I see how it is.’ Jake mock sulked. ‘You get me to shout it loud and then if there’s no fallout you might put your hand up!’
‘No.’ Cassian shook his head and reached briefly for the hand of his boyfriend, glancing over his shoulder to check they were alone. ‘I mean I’ll try to be brave like you. I’ll wait for the right moment, and I’ll shout it loud if that’s what you want.’
‘Itiswhat I want. Enough hiding.’
Cassian blinked hard, trying to swallow the white-hot fear that lanced his gut, wondering how his parents or, more specifically,his dad, might react. And that was before he considered Grandad Bernie and Nana Winnie. ‘Let’s grab some beers. I think the garden’s empty; we can go sit out there.’ He changed the topic.
‘Hot tub!’ Jake slammed his hands together loudly, his expression and tone bursting with enthusiasm for his idea. The very thought made Cassian’s stomach fold with dread. The hot tub with Jake ... if there were people around, it would be like putting a starving man at a feast-laden table and forbidding him to eat. And Cassian, who had not come out to anyone, let alone his family, and who was still processing the fact for himself, knew that for tonight and where Jake was concerned, he would have to stay hungry ...
CHAPTER TEN
LAWRENCEKELLEWAY
Lawrence lay slumped on the sofa at his mum’s house with his head on a silk cushion and his feet, minus shoes, dangling over the arm. He figured he might sleep for a bit, sober up enough to make the walk home, clear his head. This was the moment he disliked most in the drunk cycle – that point where the high was gone and reality had begun to edge out any distraction that alcohol provided. His mouth felt like it was littered with foul-tasting sawdust and his eyes were full of grit. He looked around at the clusters of artworks in heavy gilt frames and the pale blue and grey figurines placed on bookshelves. Fussy, is how he’d describe it and knew that slick and minimal was where the big bucks lay when it came to selling an upscale house. It was his business to know.
His watch nudged midnight. He took solace from the fact that it was late and much of the country slept – meaning he didn’t, in that moment, need to fear his phone; during ‘working hours’ when anyone could call, make a demand, leave a message, he surely did.
There was nowhere on earth he relaxed like this, nowhere else he felt that the front door kept the whole world at bay. Safe. Hiding, if you like. When the world outside felt like it was againstyou, when you felt hunted, owed money, were chasing your tail and always, always in the life game of snakes and ladders, no matter how hard you tried, small moments of hiatus like this, being able to doze on his mum’s sofa in a quiet, lamp-lit room were very much appreciated.
The truth was it had been quite a night in ways that he could never confide. What was it Lisa had said?
‘You’re like a weapon, something that causes destruction ...’
It was a realisation that stunned him. Partly because he never would have thought this was how she viewed him, and partly because she was right. Reaching out, he placed the phone face down on the marble-topped coffee table and considered the names that lay at the bottom of his contact list, names that were gathered under the heading ‘Blocked’. It was sometimes easier and often necessary to block the number of a creditor, an associate, a supplier or a customer, rather than try to field their calls. There were only so many times he could say, ‘I was just about to call you!’ and ‘It must have got lost in the post’or ‘The bank haven’t got back to me’ and‘I’m on it, I’ll get the money to you by...’ And worst of all: ‘I swear...I swear I made that transaction – can I check the account number?’
They gave up calling eventually, especially when word got out that he’d moved to the other side of the world, closed the company, changed the name of his venture, started over. Ghosting, wasn’t that what they called it now? Yet ironically each time such an action was necessary, and it had been necessary a handful of times, it was he who became more ghost-like. Floating away from a situation unseen. Feeling so hollowed out by the failure he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d become transparent. That’s certainly how he felt on the inside: like his guts, organs and everything of substance had turned to smoke – one long exhale and he could imagine the redundant shell of his body crumpling to the ground. To feel this empty was a horrible way to live and itwasn’t what he had planned – not for him and certainly not for his family. He just couldn’t seem to catch a break and it had always been this way.
His were always the best of intentions. Always. He had drive, initiative, vision and the gift of the gab. It was obvious to him that if he could align the right people with the right financial backing on the right piece of land, he could build great things. He could see it clearly in his head: ambitious building projects that couldn’t help but make serious money.
His skill was knowing what people wanted: the feeling of space, a couple of mod cons to impress their visitors, wide front doors that gave the illusion of grandeur ... It was all about that kerb appeal. People with money wanted gardens that were so much more than grotty green squares for the local cats to shit in. They wanted ornate spaces designed by Chelsea Flower Show gold-medal winner Penny Dommett – her name alone on a plan could add serious noughts. People wanted their outside space to be a room, somewhere to dine, entertain, drink wine under twinkling lights, and even though they might be within spitting distance of an arterial route, in those moments, and if the rain held off, they were on holiday where all their worries and the mundanity of life disappeared for a short while. They also wanted incredible, breathtaking kitchens; vast and shiny kitchens that spoke of a life of opulence and fine wine. Kitchens without the golden triangle and where no decent cook could comfortably operate, but if it had the power to make the neighbours salivate with envy at the Christmas drinks party, then that was the kind of kitchen that could sell a house. Yes, he knew what people wanted because it was what he wanted. Difference was, he knew how to build it.
His grand and elaborate business models always became complicated with so many moving parts, varied opinions, clashing ideas, and numerous administrational and legal hoops to jump through.Time and again he lost his way; things got muddled, delays ensued, which inevitably led to finance being withdrawn, causing greater delays. Yet again he would find himself shifting money from one account to another, doing his best to pour oil on troubled waters, calming angry investors and customers, offering cast-iron reassurances and buying big lunches when what he was really buying was time. And all the while his dreams and plans for this latest venture slipped through his fingers, leaving him, once again, winded face down on the grass.
The word fraudster, thrown at him on occasion when communication with those who were angry and out of pocket was unavoidable, cut him to the quick. He was not a fraudster, not dishonest, and the suggestion caused him more offence than he knew he had any right to feel. He dreamed big! Was that such a crime?
