“Don’t worry, I’ve got sons. It’s all very different these days. I don’t judge. How can I?”
“I’ve…” I started, and then I swallowed my words. It was too early. Too soon.
“We have time,” he said, saving me from myself. “I hope we can talk about things and actually get to know each other. It would be nice to have a friend.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “But then I didn’t come here for a friend, did I?”
A friend was not what I’d expected. But it was better than nothing, and his offer of letting me use the bathroom first and then turning away as I quickly got myself into bed was a welcome gesture. As was the cool beer he offered up in bed. And the conversation that followed. Easy, simple. Gentle. Not that it mattered, but we were two grown men in a small double bed. It was still awkward, however hard we tried to make it not be.
“This is…awkward,” I started. Someone had to say it out loud.
“I am going to go to sleep,” he declared, placing his now empty bottle on the floor. Reaching back and fluffing up his pillow.
One beer had made me stupid.
“Do I not get a good-night kiss for the cameras?” I asked, hoping he’d smile.
“Oh God.” He sighed, but it was followed by a giggle.
“Just kidding,” I followed up, glad for the relief of him gently patting me on the arm.
“Night, Oliver,” he said. Then he turned over.
“I’ve never… I mean…”
Oh fuck.
“Sleep,” Peter said sternly. “No more. We have time to get to know each other, but for now, I can barely keep my eyes open, let alone control my mouth. No more talking.”
I thought I agreed with that. For now.
I woke up, not realising I had slept at first, but it was morning and I was feeling weirdly…refreshed, if that was the correct word, and found my nose pressed against Peter’s arm. Peter who was…still fast asleep. The decent thing here was to get up and get out before he realised that I was nuzzling into his wrist like some loser, so that was exactly what I did. I got some socks and an oversized hoodie from my still unpacked bag and snuck out the door, hoping to score some cups of hot water for our teabags, or perhaps even a coffee machine. Or perhaps the catering truck outside would be open? Coffee would be good. Cups would be handy. Proper ones.
Well. The common room, which last night had been a tidy place of deserted calm, was…what I could only describe as…wrecked. The armchair in the corner housed…Anne. All curled up with a blanket. On the sofa was who I thought might be Ben, his feet entwined with Xanthe’s, who was top and tailing that particular section of the now pulled-apart sofa. I had no idea whose body was on the last section because their blanket was way over their head.
And here I was, trying to tiptoe over a plastic bottle and cushions and someone’s shoes, hoping not to wake people up. But there was a coffee machine. And a kettle that was still warm as I pressed my hand to the side. And a ripped open pack of teabags. Wow. Good stuff.
Tea it was then, because pressing buttons on that coffee thing would make noise, and I was not willing to engage in conversation with anyone right now.
“Babe.”
Shit. Wren. Looking absolutely gorgeously dishevelled, her blonde locks hanging messily around her bare face. And the velour tracksuit that was spraypainted over her skin gave…well. Nipples. In my face. I must have grimaced as she giggled.
“Too much for your delicate gay brain, babe?”
“Wren,” I groaned.
“I know, honey. It’s just boobs. You’re lucky I haven’t got a dick because I’d be all over you. So cute.”
Not cute. But whatever.
“I think,” she purred, “we need to set up your hunky silver daddy with my mousy housewife. What do you think?”
My reaction was…weird. I should laugh and agree, but I was…surprised to find myself weirdly protective of Peter.
“He’s a nice guy. I might just keep him.” I grinned.
“Oh, get off it. He’s as straight as anything. What are you going to do with him? Grow old gracefully? When was the last time you got laid?”
