“So you forced it.”
“I built you a bridge.” James turned to face him. “It’ll make things easier, Barnaby. For people to get used to the idea of the two of you. So that when it becomes official—”
Barnaby sat up. The O’Brian slid off his lap and hit the floor, and Florence flinched.
“It will never beofficial, James.” His voice was tight. “We have a situationship. That’s all. We’ve decided to be friends, because we don’t work as anything more than that.”
James looked at him with an expression that was entirely too knowing. “Oh, Bash.”
“Don’t.”
“Things change. Vidal tells me you’ve been learning each other. That there are ways—”
“I need to stop fucking talking to Vidal.”
“Well, you could try,” James said. “But that won’t stop him from talking at you. You know that. He’s got diplomatic immunity and no concept of boundaries. It’s his greatest charm.”
Barnaby pressed his palms flat against his thighs. He stared at the wall opposite, at a watercolour of the estate that his grandmother had painted in the seventies. It was terrible. The proportions were wrong and the lake was the colour of pond scum. His father kept it because she’d been dead for twenty years and he missed her.
“Part of the reason I did it,” James said, “is that I don’t entirely trust you not to run away from whatever this is.”
Barnaby’s jaw tightened.
“You bolt, Bash. It’s what you do. When something gets too close, you retreat behind the manners and the composure and you wait for the other person to get bored and leave. I’ve watched you do it since we were fourteen. You did it with that boy at Cambridge. You would have done it with Lex, given enough time and enough silence between visits.”
The worst part was that James was right.
“Now you can’t,” James said. “You’re joint ambassadors. You have commitments together. You have to be in the same room, on a schedule, with photographers present, for at least two years.I’ve made it structurally impossible for you to ghost Lex Murphy, and I’m not sorry.”
Barnaby sat with that. Florence shifted at his feet, pressing her nose against his ankle.
“Now I can’t,” Barnaby said. He picked at a thread on the sofa cushion. “Now…I don’t want to, James.”
James was still. Then he reached over, lifted Barnaby’s legs, sat down properly at the end of the sofa, and settled Barnaby’s feet across his lap. It was a position they’d sat in a thousand times. James’s hand rested on Barnaby’s ankle, warm through his sock.
“I told you to get fucked in Tokyo,” James said. “I didn’t expect you to fall in love in the process, like a complete and utter sap. Why couldn’t you just be a proper lad and go on a fuck frenzy without catching feelings?”
“Because I’m broken,” Barnaby said.
“Because you’re a nervy bugger.” James squeezed his ankle. “And Lex is perfect for you, because he’s thick enough to keep at you. Any sensible man would have given up after the first attempt. He came back for a second go. That’s either devotion or brain damage. In a boxer, it could really be both.”
Barnaby pressed his knuckles against his mouth. The laugh that came out was wet and ragged and surprised him.
They sat there together. The sun room was quiet, the light grey and steady through the windows, and Florence snored softly at the end of the sofa. James’s thumb traced small circles on Barnaby’s ankle, absent and familiar.
Chapter Nineteen
Thewellies were Barnaby’s. This was immediately apparent because they were too narrow across the ball of his foot and weren’t built for someone who did regular leg days at the gym. Lex had got both feet in, but the rubber pinched with every step and his toes were jammed together so tightly he’d have permanent nerve damage by the time they reached the first field.
“I’ve got shooting wellies in the boot room,” the Duke had said, when the expedition was proposed. “Should fit you. I’m a twelve.”
“I’m a twelve as well, but wide.”
The Duke had looked at him as though the concept of a wide foot was a medical condition he’d only read about. “Try Barnaby’s spares. He’s an eleven, but the Hunters run generous.”
They did not run generous. They ran like straitjackets for feet. Lex was walking across the Duke of Chatham’s estate in boots that were compressing his toes into a single fused unit,and nobody else appeared to be suffering in any way. The Duke strode ahead in ancient Barbour and a tweed cap. James walked beside him, hands in his jacket pockets, while Perry trailed behind them, tapping away on his mobile. Barnaby walked at Lex’s side, and Florence ranged ahead in wide, ecstatic loops, her red coat bright against the grey-green of the parkland.
The Duke produced his hip flask before they’d cleared the first gate. It was a silver thing, dented and tarnished, with a monogram on the front that had been rubbed smooth by years of being pulled from jacket pockets. He unscrewed the cap and took a swig, then held it out to James.
