Commitment Issues by Ali Ryecart
Chapter Nine
Freddie
“I think that’s everything.” Elliot looks at the bulging bags we both hold.
“Yes, thank you. It’s all more than enough.”
My stomach flips at the amount he’s spent on me. Suit, shoes, two silk shirts and a couple of ties. Those bags represent a fortune, or a fortune to me. More money’s been spent on what they hold than I can expect to earn in six months, if not more, but Elliot’s handed over his credit card without a blink, as though the sums are little more than change. Perhaps they are, to him.
I shift from foot to foot, the disparity in our status suddenly acute and glaring. “It still seems like too much.” Far too much to pay for a fake date.
Elliot shrugs. “These,” he says, holding up one of the bags, “represent your expenses. Which James will be meeting.” He gives me an almost conspiratorial smile, breaking through my squirming discomfort, and I can’t help but laugh. James is going to regret his part in all this, or his bank balance will.
Out of nowhere, my stomach growls, long and loud. It’s been hours since I toasted the last piece of stale bread and smothered it in mayonnaise because we’re out of butter.
Elliot quirks his brow at me. “Hungry?”
“A bit peckish, I suppose.” Peckish? I’m bloody starving.
“Let’s get something. There’s a small café around the back here that’s very good, or,” he says, hesitating, “we could go back to my place? It wouldn’t take long to get there, and I don’t know about you but I’m sick of crowds.”
His place? My surprise must show on my face.
“We should discuss the wedding, and I think it’ll be easier to do it somewhere quieter, but we also need to work out what we’re going to say to people if they ask about us. Well, Gavin, because he’s sure to dig. But if you’d rather go to a café, or a pub…?” Elliot’s looking at me, waiting for me to make the decision. His eyes are overcast in a way I’m sure they weren’t just moments ago, but the sun’s scudding in and out of the clouds, so it’s probably nothing more than my imagination. “Unless, of course, you have plans for this evening?” he adds quietly.
“No, no plans. And, erm, yes. Your place. That’ll be great. Yes, thanks.”
I’m burbling, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He smiles, and his clear blue eyes are bright with no sign of clouds. Which of course I’ve imagined, because I’m teetering on the edge of starvation, my blood sugar’s plummeting and if I go much longer without food, I’ll end up eating my own leg.
Elliot hails a taxi, and we bundle into the shadowy interior. The driver’s partitioned off, and I’m acutely aware that we’re sealed in a little bubble of our own. Elliot’s slightly tangy cologne is stronger in the back of cab, more concentrated in the enclosed space. Without thinking I breathe in deep, the clean, sharp, almost salt tang reminding me of the wild North Sea that batters the exposed shoreline of the Suffolk village I come from. Closing my eyes, images of family and old friends crash in on me. It’s been too long since I’ve been home, and for all that I love London, I miss my family and the wild coastline.
A shrill ring slices through the air and I snap my eyes open.
“It’s James,” Elliot says, with a snort. “He can leave a message. Let the little runt wonder what’s going on. He’ll hate not knowing.”
“Cosmo’s the same.”
“Hmm. They’re probably comparing notes.”
I’m not quite sure what Elliot means, and I don’t ask, especially as he’s closed his eyes and settled back into the seat.
It doesn’t take too long to reach Hampstead, and the taxi pulls up in a tiny side street.
I’m expecting a luxury block of flats, with a liveried porter in reception, but I can’t be more wrong, as I stare up at a large Victorian terraced house. A black and white tiled path runs up to the dark green door. The small front garden hasn’t, like so many houses, been turned into off-road parking, but instead is a riot of colour, with terracotta pots blooming with bright flowers. It’s lovely, and like a cross between a Homes and Gardens spread, and something much more homely.
Elliot unlocks the door, and looks at me over his shoulder. “We’ll go straight through to the kitchen, if you don’t mind? It’s where I spend most of my time in the house, in any case. Oh, I’ve got a dog. He’s only a scrap of a thing, but are you okay with them?”
“I’m fine. I grew up with a whole menagerie of animals.”
But what I am, is surprised. Elliot just doesn’t look like a dog person, whatever one of those looks like, I guess, but whatever it is, it’s not him.
I’m curious as to what breed it is, but I just know it’s going to be a pedigree, and one of the popular ones, like a French Bulldog. I’m about to ask, but he’s already walking down the long hallway, and I follow him to the room at the end.
The kitchen’s bright and airy, but there’s nothing sleek or designer about it. It’s kind of battered but not with that conscious and contrived shabby-chic look that costs a fortune. This is homely and, I just know, well-loved. Free-standing mismatched cupboards, all painted a light sage green, stand against soft-white walls, and a huge oak table takes pride of place in the middle of the stone-flagged floor.
But there’s one feature above all else that’s totally breath-taking.
“Oh, wow!”
Elliot laughs. “It does tend to have that effect on people.”
“I can see why.”
The whole of the back wall’s been knocked out and replaced by glass bi-folding doors, framing the long back garden and the spectacular views across London.
“The advantage of living on a hill,” Elliot says, coming up to stand next to me. “When Gavin and I bought the house, it was the view that sold it to us, and we knew we had to take advantage of it.”
Elliot’s voice tightens, and I throw him a quick glance. His lips are a tight, thin line and he looks closed off, and I can’t help wondering at the bittersweet memories the view must bring back every time he looks out over the city. He catches my eye and although his face lights up in a smile, there’s something forced about its brightness, and in the huge kitchen his voice, when he speaks, seems to echo and bounce off the walls.
A strangled yelp, and the clip of claws on the flagstones pulls me away from the jaw-dropping view. I turn around and do my best not to laugh because whatever it is that limps to a stop and stares up at me from a safe distance, isn’t a pedigree French Bulldog, or a pedigree anything. In all truth, I have no idea what the scruffy, wiry-haired little thing with the stumpy tail is.
“This ridiculous looking creature is Jasper. When he isn’t sleeping, he’s eating or demanding a tummy rub.” On cue, Jasper flops over onto his back to reveal a plump, pink belly. “The little sod’s probably been curled up on my bed, even though he knows he’s not supposed to.” Elliot reaches down and tickles the squirming little dog. “Go and say hello, go on boy,” Elliot urges, but Jasper whines, wriggles to his front, and buries his nose between his paws. “He’s unsure around those he doesn’t know, it’s nothing personal.” There’s an apologetic tone to Elliot’s voice.
Without thinking, I drop to my hands and knees, putting me at roughly Jasper’s level.
“Hello, Jasper.”
I keep my voice low and my body slightly hunched, in a subservient position. Just as I hope, Jasper finds his nerve, and his inner top dog, and with it comes an inquisitive wet nose, a sniff, and a small strangled excuse of a woof, immediately followed by a rough-tongued lick of my outstretched hand, before he throws himself on his back and offers up his belly, not to Elliot this time, but to me.
“He only needed reassurance.” I look at up Elliot and smile.
He’s staring down at me, at Jasper, and back at me, his mouth slightly agape.
“Well, he’s never done that the first time he’s met somebody. When he came here, it took some time to gain his confidence. He spent most of the first couple of weeks hunched in the corner, either whining or with his snout buried between his paws. I think that’s why Gavin abandoned him, because he didn’t match up to expectations.”
My fingers still on Jasper’s soft tummy. The acid in Elliot’s voice could burn through metal, the unspoken words, just as I didn’t, hanging in the air.
Elliot turns on his heel, goes to one of the cupboards, and pulls out something that looks suspiciously like a dog treat. I catch his eye and he gives me a sheepish grin, and the awkward silence fractures and falls away.
“Let’s get something to eat. I’ve got ham, cheese, chicken,” he says, washing his hands before he pulls open the door of a retro-style fridge. “And pickles and chutneys, and some good sourdough. Would that be all right?”
“Thanks. Sounds good. Can I help?”
“Yes, by opening these,” Elliot produces a couple of bottled lagers from the fridge.
I grin when I read the label. “Badger’s Bum. Why do you want to drink a lager that calls itself an arse? You strike me as being more of a cocktails man, or craft gin drinker.”
Elliot shudders. “God, no. Give me a properly brewed, small brewery beer any time. I was a member of the Real Ale Society for a time, when I was a student. I even grew a beard, but when a boyfriend said he’d seen something moving in it, I shaved it off pronto. Like all students, I drank far too much, but I’m not a big drinker now. Too many early morning meetings, so I can’t afford to be muzzy headed. Cheers.” He chinks his bottle to mine, before he upends it and drinks in deep.
I bring my own bottle to my lips, but that’s as far as I get. Forget the beer, it’s impossible not to drink Elliot in.
Head thrown back, eyes closed, full red lips clamped around the neck of the bottle, his Adam’s apple pulsing as he swallows. Heat hits me low in the stomach and deep in my balls, as my cock fills.
A lurid image fills my head of being pressed back against one of the cupboards as I stare down at Elliot. On his knees between my naked, splayed legs, this is what he’d look like with my dick in his mouth.
A strangled groan’s pushing its way up my throat. No, no, no. I drag my gaze away and attack my beer clumsily and with too much force.
“Oh, shit,” I rasp, my eyes watering.
“You okay?”
Elliot stares at me, his slightly parted lips damp from the beer.
“An epic fail in the spatial awareness department.” I run my tongue along my lower lip, which I’ve rammed against my teeth with the heavy glass bottle, and wince as I taste the metallic tang of blood.
“It’s bleeding pretty badly.” Elliot abandons his own bottle, and grabs up some kitchen towel. “If it doesn’t stop in a minute or two I’ll take you to A&E to get a stitch in it.”
“It won’t need that, I—”
My words are cut off as he presses, with a firm but gentle touch, the kitchen towel to my lip. My breath catches in my throat as heat dances across my skin. Elliot, his brow creased in an intense frown, glares at my paper-covered lip, determination written across his face to stem the blood flow. Not that there’s much blood in my lip, because it’s all rushed south.
Elliot’s so close, just a hair’s breadth away. His cologne once again drenches my senses, that sea salt tang that reminds me of home, but now, more than that, just says Elliot, as it mixes with the warm, masculine scent of the man himself. I want to breathe in deep and drown in the aroma, but it’d just look like I’m sniffing him like a dog.
“I think it’ll be okay now,” I say, my voice strangled and just a touch squeaky, as I take over paper towel pressing duty.
His eyes jerk up to mine, and it’s everything I can do not to groan and melt into a pile of mush at this feet. Because the pale blue of his eyes is dark, devoured by his distended pupils, leaving no more than a thin rim of colour. I suck in a breath at the hunger and heat I swear I see in their inky depths, the same hunger and heat that’s burning low in my belly. All it would take would be a tiny step forward, and—
“No need for A&E. Just be careful of it, as you don’t want it opening up, but it should be okay in a couple or so days. The smallest wounds anywhere on the head or face tend to bleed badly,” he says, stepping back in what’s more of a stumble.
He goes to wash his hands and I let my breath go, in a long and shaky exhale. When he turns back to me, he’s smiling, his eyes once more light blue and clear, and whatever it is I thought I saw is nowhere to be seen.
He goes back to preparing the food, and it doesn’t take long for him to push a piled-high plate towards me.
“This is great. It’s like a proper pub lunch. Thank you.”
He smiles, and there’s something almost shy about it. It’s a glimpse of another Elliot, an Elliot who’s not urbane and confident, but an Elliot who’s not used to praise or compliments. And it makes me think of Gavin, the man for whom Elliot never met expectations.
I don’t know the man. I don’t know if he had good reason for walking out. I don’t know if he’s as injured, battered, and bruised as Elliot. But I do know something. I know it from some deep, dark place within me, and slowly, slowly, slowly, it’s creeping up into the light.
Elliot needs somebody to stand shoulder to shoulder with him from the moment we step off the plane at Marseilles, to the moment the cabin door closes on the flight home. He doesn’t need a companion, he needs armour, and for better or worse, that armour’s me. For the first time since James’ call and his crazed suggestion, I’m truly calm, sure and settled. I can do this, I can do it for Elliot. I can be everything he needs.
James, with his cat-like eyes that pierce beneath the skin, knows that, and now, so do I.
