Holiday Passion: A M/M Holiday Romance Page 7

“And brekkie,” Luther says, voice slurred by sleep, eyes rimmed with red, hair standing on end.

  As he passes, Martin ruffles his hair and Luther makes a series of stifled protest noises. Martin grabs Lin’s suitcase, a huge soft trolley that’s twice as large as Martin and a flower pattern carpet bag. Jacob, coming in with a bulging rucksack swears he can manage his luggage all by himself.

  “Are you sure?” Martin asks, lifting both trolley and bag. “We can ask Sleeping Beauty over there.”

  Luther splutters.

  “If that is his only defence Luther needs his morning coffee really badly,” Lin says. Then calling after him. “You ought to provide.”

  From midway up the stairs, Martin says, “Sorry, can’t hear you, Lin!”

  “You’re just as bad as each other,” she shouts from the bottom of the stairs.

  The fact that both he and Luther are useless without some amount of stimulants in their systems is not lost on Martin however. So when he gets back down, he steals directly into the kitchen, where he finds a tired-looking Tristan staring into a coffee cup. “Oh,” Martin says, coming to a halt. “I thought you were still asleep. I hope we didn’t wake you just now.”

  “No,” Tristan says, drinking the dregs of his coffee. “I hope Sarah and I didn’t keep you up last night.”

  “No, no you didn’t, don’t sweat it,” Martin says, turning around to fiddle with the electric kettle. “Swear.”

  “Martin,” Tristan says in a slightly reproachful tone, “on my way down I saw you sleeping on the sofa.”

  Martin pivots so he’s facing Tristan again. He braces against the worktop, drumming his fingers on it. “Tristan, it’s alright.” Martin’s ears feel warm at the tips. “Really.”

  “Well, I am sorry,” he says. “The problem is…” Martin kicks at the cupboard behind him. “What?” “Sarah is great.”

  “Believe me, I got the idea,” Martin says, holding a hand up only to end up scratching the side of his forehead.

  “No, it’s just,” Tristan says. “That she’s so enthusiastic. And I want to make her happy.” “Are you trying to apologise?” Martin asks, making an incredulous sound.

  “No,” Tristan says, adding something else Martin can’t catch because the kettle makes a lot of noise.

  “Pardon,” Martin lines up mugs and dunks a tea bag into the first one. “I didn’t hear you. The… you know.”

  “I said, I don’t think I can keep up with her.” Tristan upends his coffee cup as though he can get it to yield more that way and drinks from it. “I mean I love her. And I love her drive. It means she’s into, you know. That’s great. It’s flattering. But seven times. I— I can’t perform like that. Can you?”

  Martin’s about to shape an answer that won’t go into too much detail, when Lin, Jacob and Luther trail into the kitchen. Even if Tristan hadn’t mimed a no at him, Martin would have known not to speak about the subject with the others.

  Luther makes a beeline for him and says, “Is that my coffee? Have you made me my coffee?”

  “Not, yet,” Martin says. “That’s the cup. Insta’s in the cupboard. Also, thank you for assuming I’m your body slave.”

  Luther gives him a little glare that’s unfocused by sleep, grabs the empty mug Martin set out and starts ladling instant into it. As he does, he keeps muttering that instant coffee isn’t real coffee.

  “I could make something,” offers Jacob. “To relieve Martin of his hosting duties.” “No, I’m fine,” Martin says, “some people are just too fixated on their morning coffee.”

  “Please, I can whip something up,” Jacob says, then swinging round to Lin he adds, “You want cappuccino, right?”

  “Right,” Lin says with a bright smile. Jacob rolls up his sleeves. “I’ll set to work then.”

  “It’s not as if we have anything much,” Martin says, sure they’re probably thinking him the worst host ever. “I meant to make a run for the supermarket.”

  “No need, Martin,” Jacob says, taking possession of the range as Lin and Luther seat themselves around the table. “I can make a little go a long way.”

  “Obviously,” Martin says, because of course… Lance could.

  By the time Martin’s drinking his tea, Gwen and Leon have come down. They’re arm in arm and still in their night wear. Leon says, “I feel like the laziest sod of all. Here I was thinking I was being bright and early when you’re already all here!”

  “Jacob,” Gwen says, her voice rising. “And Lin!”

  “Yes, I thought you knew?” Jacob says as he tries handling the last of the eggs.

  “We were on the same train,” Lin says from the table. “Imagine. Last I heard from Jacob he was somewhere in Asia being ever so useful. Then I take the train from London and who should I meet?”

  “Lucky coincidence,” says Gwen with a small smile and a glance from under her lashes. “But I’m so glad you’re here.” She flicks a warm look at Jacob. “Both of you.”

  “I’m pleased too,” Jacob says. “To be here with you… and all the others.” “Yes,” Gwen says, “we’ll all get to talk.” Leon starts buttering a biscuit.

  Gwen grabs Lin’s hand and squeezes. “You should tell me everything about that acting job in New York.”

  “Well,” Lin says, “I auditioned and I got it!” She runs a hand down the grain of the table. “I’m quite surprised actually.”

  “Nonsense,” Gwen says, “you’re going to be a splendid actress.”

  Lin looks up, tossing her hair to the other side. “I’m determined to be marvellous. But it’s still a first time for me.”

  “I can’t imagine a photoshoot is all that different,” says Gwen, letting go of Lin’s hand and leaning against her chair. “Aren’t you playing a part in those too, a role?”

  “In a way, yes,” Lin agrees. “And I’ve had to learn lines for TV ads before.”

  “I still remember the slogan from that shampoo ad of yours,” says Leon, munching on his biscuits.

  “Don’t remind me,” says Luther groaning. He sounds much more alive now that he’s had his coffee and given it a minute or two to act. “Every uni chum of mine asked me about that bloody commercial.”

  “More like,” Leon says, “they wanted a date with your sister.”

  “Eh,” Luther says, going to paw the kettle. “I’d rather not even consider that.”

  “Luther can’t accept that I have a sexuality,” Lin says, putting her hands on her hips.

  “I can.” Luther fiddles frantically with the kettle. “I’d just rather not be reminded of it in connection with people I knew were complete and utter horn dogs.”

  “You really need to loosen up, Luther,” Lin says, accepting a tea cup from Jacob, whom she graces with a smile. “And come to terms with me being a grown up who likes sex.”

  Jacob coughs over the eggs he’s dishing, while Luther says, “Please, spare me this kind of talk this early in the morning.”

  Sarah comes into the kitchen and interrupts Lin’s reply with the words, “Oh you’re all down here. Is breakfast on?”

  Martin shoots to his feet. “I’ll take that as my cue to go to the supermarket.”

  Chapter 8

  2002

  Martin is lying on his back on the grass, the sun shining on his body and enveloping him in its easy warmth, music washing in his ears in the shape of the notes from The Scientist. If he squints, he can see the bulk of the school building, grey wash all around, a crowd of students milling about, rucksacks hoisted onto their shoulders, textbooks underarm. Gwen and Lance are sitting on the low wall back in far distance, side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Martin can’t make it out but he suspects they’re holding hands.

  Jacob’s probably whispering sweet nothings, too. Martin thinks he’s decidedly the type to do that. Somehow he has the courage to voice all his feelings, inclusive of his mushiest ones, and not feel like an idiot. Martin would never be able to. He’d probably get terribly tongue tied and make a fool of himself.


  Then again Jacob has more things going for him than just an ability to murmur sweet nothings.

  He’s handsome and cool and a good bloke, too. Martin would never compare.

  The song is winding to a close when someone snatches his earphones. “Oi,” Martin says, turning round.

  Luther throws his school bag down and sprawls next to him, his head on it. “Hi.”

  “I was listening…”

  “To your rubbish depressing music,” Luther finishes for him.

  Luther’s eyes are so round and full of mirth, Martin can’t really chew him out, so he settles for muttering about how Luther’s tastes are plain shite.

  Luther says, “I spoke to my dad.”

  Martin turns off his CD player. “And?”

  “I should perhaps say we had several discussions over the past week,” Luther says.

  Martin nods slowly. “I’m glad he opened up.”

  “Me, too,” Luther says, exhaling carefully. “We watched one of her shorts together. From start to finish. Martin, he was crying by the end.”

  Martin can’t really picture Uther Harrison crying. He’s always so stiff and severe. But he guesses he’s been wrong all along and he doesn’t really know the man. “It must have been… He loved her.”

  “Yes, that’s what he said,” Luther says. “And in a way I felt bad for forcing him to, you know.”

  “Luther,” Martin sits up, places a hand on his chest. “She was your mum. There was nothing wrong about… about trying to get to know her.”

  Luther covers Martin’s palm with his hand, holding it flat on his chest. Martin can feel it when he breathes, when his chest rises and his stomach hollows. “I know. I don’t feel guilty. But I feel… sorry for him.”

  “Luther, he lost the one person he loved,” Martin says. “I can’t even imagine… But you’re his son and he loves you too.”

  “I know.” Luther swallows, nods. “I know that now.” He pauses, looks at the clouds steaming past in the sky.

  “So everything’s fine now?” Martin asks after a beat. The truth is he wants for nothing better than for Luther to be okay, for him to have everything he wants. He understands how knowing about his mum is integral to that. He understands in a way that’s completely visceral. “You’re okay with him?”

  “Are you asking if I’m about to be grounded forever and ever?”

  Martin rolls back into his former position, lying down on the grass. He slips his arm under his head. “No, I think I’m asking if it’s going to be all right between you and your dad.”

  “I think so,” Luther says after some thoughtful humming. “I think so.” He turns his head to look at Martin. “How about your mum?”

  “She was cross with me for a bit,” Martin says, not reporting the whole of the discussion to Luther, especially the bit questioning their friendship, which he still doesn’t understand. “But she isn’t angry anymore, I think.”

  “I’m glad,” Luther says, his mouth almost curling in a smile. “The relationship you have with your mum… I can see it’s quite special. I… I wouldn’t want to do anything to ruin it.”

  “You didn’t,” Martin says, and he’s the one who’s smiling now. “I don’t think anyone can.”

  Luther bobs his head. “You know, I like to think that if my mum were still, you know, I would have a similar relationship to her.”

  “I’m sure you would have,” Martin says. “Your mum seemed like a fine lady.”

  “Did I say her film was great?” Luther says, rolling onto his side in a burst of enthusiasm. “It was all about these people living parallel lives and never meeting. And you’re asking yourself why and then you find out. And it’s because they’re kind of living on different planes. It was all so very clever…”

  “Wow,” Martin says, noticing how Luther’s eyes brighten when he mentions his mum’s film. “Tell me more.”

  “Well, it’s subtle,” Luther says, “it’s the way it’s edited and the key scenes are pieced together. It’s… you just need to see it to get it.”

  “I’d love to,” Martin says, and though he’s never been particularly interested in cinema and cinema making, he means it. “I would truly do.”

  “Then you’re invited over,” Luther says, making it final. “I asked dad if I could have my mum’s reels and he said that he’d get them.”

  “In that case I’ll bring pop-corn,” Martin says, mouth twitching.

  For no reason that Martin can detect, Luther’s face clenches. “If you think it’s boring, of course, you could just say no.”

  “Luther,” Martin says, making a grab for Luther’s wrist the moment it seems he’s about to take off. “I’d be really, really happy to see your mum’s stuff alright?”

  “Are you sure?” Luther asks, making a thorough study of Martin’s face. “Yes,” Martin says, reaching a hand out for Luther to shake. “Most definitely.” Luther grabs his hand, says, “It’s a date, then.”

  * * *

  As the last notes of the song die, Jacob puts down the guitar and looks around, as if he’s waiting for a negative reaction.

  Martin claps loudly, says, “Most beautiful rendition of Stand By Me ever, Lance.” Jacob looks down and smiles. “Thank you, Martin, you’re a friend.”

  “Jacob is always too humble,” Lin says, taking a sip of her wine. “Learn to accept praise, Lance.”

  Gwen rubs her dress down. “Indeed, Lance, that was a soulful rendition of a beautiful song.”

  “Thank you, Gwen,” Jacob says.

  “You’re welcome.” Gwen grins, breathes out. “I’ve missed your voice.”

  Leon rises and walks over to the bar. He pours himself a whisky.

  Jacob says. “I— I’m sorry I haven’t been more present. Even if it’s only with a phone call. But I thought… You’re getting married and that perhaps it wasn’t right for me to… barge in on your happiness.”

  “Jacob,” says Gwen. “You know you wouldn’t have.” She toys with one of her curls. “We’re still friends. Even if we decided… Even if we couldn’t be together.”

  “The charity means a lot to me and to other people, Gwen,” Jacob says, casting his eyes down. “I couldn’t put myself before it.”

  “I understand,” says Gwen.

  “You do?”

  “Yes, so I…” She looks to the others as if for help find the words. “I want you to always keep in touch.”

  “I will,” says Jacob. “I promise I will.”

  “Well, that’s very touching,” says Leon, sitting down on the carpet close to Gwen. “But then Gwen is special, don’t you all agree?”

  “Yes,” Jacob says. “That she is.”

  Sarah and Tristan stumble into the lunge, hand in hand. Tristan’s shirt sitting askew, and half melted snow flakes are still sitting on his head. Sarah’s cheeks are as red as apples and her hair has escaped the bun she did it up in. “Well, hello,” Sarah says.

  “We went out for a walk!” Tristan says, tugging on Sarah’s hand to lead her forward.

  “That’s what they call it now, is it?” says Lin.

  “Lin!” Luther says, making big, outraged eyes at his sister.

  “What,” Lin says, widening her own eyes on purpose. “They come back all dishevelled, it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to guess what they were at.”