Take My Breath Away by Ali Ryecart
Chapter Sixteen
PERRY
It’s been a handful of days since the encounter with Aiden in the café. I keep telling myself it’s not my business because it isn’t. I know that, I really do know that, but… when I’m not busy, when my mind’s free to roam, I can’t help thinking of them. Together. Which is both hot and kind of gut wrenching because in those vivid imaginings, Aiden somewhere along the line turns into me.
Although I can’t ever imagine a man like James wanting me over somebody like Aiden.
There was something hard edged and mocking about Aiden, but there’s no way I can’t pretend he’s not gorgeous. Tall and muscular, over short — or shortish — and puny. James is the kind of man who can have anybody he wants, and I’ve no illusion that what he wants has very much to do with me.
That crush I’ve got is destined to go the way of all crushes — unspoken and unrequited, which is probably just as well. I’ve had enough complication in my life recently, and I’m not sure I really like them very much. One thing I am sure about, and that’s my sexual frustration.
I’ve always had a lively sex life — it was what happened after, when I thought there was an after, as in maybe something more long term and stable — that was the crap part. But now? Nothing. Not a sausage. I’d smile at my own joke, if the situation were funny. The shower’s been a good refuge, where it’s been me and my soaped-up hand, but something more, something intimate, something filling as well as fulfilling is what I want, need and crave.
Crave.
My groan seems to fill every space in the house.
My cock’s certainly craving. The denim across the front of my jeans is stretched tight and I press my hand down over my shaft, rubbing along the hard ridge, and this time it’s a shuddering sigh that forces its way through my lips as my hips cant upwards to meet the pressure of my palm.
Maybe I should buy some sex toys. Maybe James has some sex toys. Maybe we could play with some sex toys together—
No. No, no, no.
Even meaningless, no strings fun is dangerous for me, because meaningless and no strings never seems to stay that way. It’s exactly how I find myself landing face first in the shit, every single time. James doesn’t do anything but meaningless and no strings; he made that as clear as day. Even when he was with his boyfriend Alex, it’s what he did. He’s said so, spelled it out, and I’ve got the memo in triplicate. And the T-shirt.
No use thinking about that. James likes his life as it is, keeping it casual with men like Aiden, as hot as they come Aiden. I try my best to reheat the agonising fantasy, but my cock’s gone off the idea, and I let my hand slip away from my deflating, softening dick.
But sexual frustration’s not my only concern at the moment.
In front of me on the kitchen table is my spare work laptop, open on yet another commercial estate agent’s site. None of the agents are in London, but in Brighton, down on the South coast.
My plan doesn’t only involve setting up a business, it’s also about me moving away and completely starting again. Yet even the briefest, most cursory look online makes me feel like my dream’s melting away in front of my eyes like fondant icing in too warm a room. It’s not that there’s a shortage of properties in Brighton, but few if any are suitable. Wrong location. Too small. Too big. Wrong usage classification. And all of them eyewateringly expensive. Add into that the set-up costs, as well as finding somewhere to live that’s not a South coast replica of those disgusting rooms we looked at…
I can’t stay here with James indefinitely. If nothing else, it’s not good for my physical and mental health because the sight of him, especially in the suits that fit him like a second skin, send my blood pressure sky high and my heart thumping and jumping out of control.
He likes me being here, he doesn’t disguise it, and I like being here, too. It’d be very, very easy to get way too comfortable and it’s exactly what’s happening. The one thing I dread happening is him getting in first, suggesting it’s time for me to move out, and that means me getting my skates on before that happens. Because it will. He’ll soon get tired of the restrictions my presence has placed on him, and I’ve got my dignity, even it did take a knock over the whole Grant situation.
My eyes fall to the last place I looked at online. The kitchen is no more than a cupboard but still the cost is astronomical. Not like this kitchen, this huge and beautiful room that’s at the heart of the house. But there’s no point in dreaming when what I really need is to get the wheels rolling on Operation Perry. Or it would be if I could find something, anything, in Brighton that looked like it didn’t cost an arm, leg and kidney and wasn’t next to a tyre fitters or a broken down charity shop.
The front door slams, signalling James is home from work. It also coincides with the timer on the oven bleeping, which I get up and turn off. Taking the casserole out, I lift the lid and take a peek. It’s bubbling away, too hot to eat, and besides it’ll taste all the better for resting and cooling down.
“Is that chicken and mushroom casserole?” James asks as he wanders into the kitchen.
“It is. I’m going to do garlic and butter mash, if that’s okay?” It’s more than okay, because I know this particular combo is one of his favourites. His face lights up with a big grin, and my heart does a little happy dance.
“Perfect. I’ve only had a very substandard sandwich today, and coffee that tasted like the boiled up scraping from the bottom of a budgie’s cage.” He grimaces.
Tugging his tie loose, he undoes the top two buttons of his shirt before he shrugs off his jacket. He’s wearing a waistcoat, because it’s always a three-piece suit for James. As he runs the fingers of both hands through his steely grey hair, I have to look away.
James absolutely rocks the slightly dishevelled silver fox businessman look, and I have a vivid and startling picture of him locking the door to his office and inviting his executive assistant who kind of looks a bit — a lot — like me to come and take down more than a letter. I rummage around on the veg rack, almost knocking the whole thing over, ostensibly looking for potatoes to mash, anything other than the delicious agony of watching him, seeing the slow lift of his lips and the narrowing of his eyes as his gaze meets mine, eyes that always seem to see right through me.
“What’s this?”
I walk over and stand beside him. He’s looking at the list of commercial properties on my laptop. His focus shifts from the screen to me. There’s a stiffness to his jawline, and his eyes are unreadable. I feel sort of caught out, which is silly, because he knows I want to make a change to my life and move on.
“Brighton.” The word falls dull and heavy from his lips. “You’re considering setting up in Brighton? That’s bloody miles away.”
“Well, yes. If I can find the right place—”
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
His words are hard his face closed off. The ground beneath my feet feels like shifting sand.
“I’m trying to get a good idea of the kind of premises available, and their price range.” I gabble, as I rush to explain myself. “Although to be honest there doesn’t seem to be very much. But I need to start getting the wheels turning. I’ve made a list of commercial estate agents and I’m going to get in touch with them in order to go through properly what my requirements are. Then I’ll get a better idea of what’s doable, and that means I can talk to my parents. Also I think it’s about time I started to think about getting out from under your feet.” So I stop cramping your style, so you can get back to Aiden, so you can—
“You’re not under my feet. I told you, you can stay here for as long as you want.”
“I know you did, and you can’t even imagine how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me. But this,” I say nodding towards the laptop, “I’ve always thought of striking out on my own, doing what I really want to. What better time than now, when I don’t have any ties to anyone, or any place?”
The muscles in his jaw twitch, hardly noticeable, but standing so close to him, feeling the heat of his body and the in, out of his breathing, I notice. Panic presses down on me. I need to explain myself, and the words rush out of me.
“What happened with Grant and him kicking me out, it’s given me a kind of freedom, a blank slate if you like, to start writing out my life.” I’m trying to explain but I feel like I’m making a hash of it.
“Brighton,” he says. “I’ve got very fond memories of Brighton.” He smiles suddenly but it’s a hard smile. “But it hasn’t got anything to do with cakes. I’ve been there for a few Prides. It’s also called London-on-Sea, which explains the prices. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I did, but the property prices are even higher than I was expecting if I’m honest. But it seems like the right sort of place to think about setting up. A busy town, but by the sea.”
I look at the photograph on the screen. It’s a place just off of The Lanes, that little network of tiny streets full of artisanal shops. It’d be a perfect location but the figure quoted for the rent alone makes me want to weep. An overwhelming, all engulfing wave of gloom comes over me. Maybe it’s all a pipe dream, and as unattainable as a day trip to Mars, but if you don’t have dreams what do you have?
Not a fucking shop in The Lanes, that’s for sure.
James must feel my spirit sag, because when he speaks his voice is softer.
“Do you know anybody who’s doing this work full-time, and making a living from it?”
“Yes, a couple I met on one of the courses. They’ve got a patisserie and a very high-end bespoke cake making business, but not in London. It can be done. I know it’ll take time to get established, I’m not that green, but part of that is being in the right location.”
“And you think Brighton’s it?”
I feel myself bristle. “Yes, I think it could be.” Or I would if I could find somewhere for the right price, in the right place.
“How many commissions have you actually—?”
“Plenty. You’ve seen what I can do — I showed you the photos, remember? It’s not like I’ve just made a few cup cakes and a Victoria sponge for Sunday tea,” I snap. It’s an attack because I’m cornered and I don’t like it. But I’m not going to let him think this is some pie — or cake — in the sky, idea. “Weddings, christenings, birthdays, plus some special orders for a couple of boutique hotels. Corporate work, too.” My shoulders want to slump at the lost opportunity that was. But I won’t let them. “I did that with somebody I got to know on a residential course. We even got referral work, and we began discussing going into business together — getting premises with a small high-end patisserie attached to it.”
“Then why didn’t you?” James’ voice is softer, losing the hard abrasiveness from earlier.
“Maddy’s circumstances changed, out of the blue and dramatically. Family issues. She had to go back to Canada.”
“So your plans came to a standstill?”
I nod. “As far as getting our own place, yes. When we were working together, we did it out of somebody else’s premises.”
James’ eyes are full of questions, and somehow I feel he deserves all the answers.
“Where I used to live, before Grant, there was a small café around the corner. An older couple owned it. They did the best sandwiches and I used to pick one up each day, on the way to work. Dead cheap, too.”
It’s impossible not to smile when I talk about Joyce and Ian.
“I got friendly with them and I asked if me and Maddy could rent some kitchen time and space from them. I explained why, and they were really enthusiastic. You need room to do this kind of work, and proper storage facilities. Most domestic kitchens don’t cut it. Anyway, it worked out really well, and I think they were happy to get some cash in hand. When Maddy went home, it was just me. The orders were still coming in, but working a full-time day job, it was getting difficult to keep up. I didn’t let down any clients, but it was a near thing. But then it all came to a sudden stop.”
James’ brow crinkles. “How do you mean?”
“Joyce died suddenly, and Ian sold up. It all happened so quickly. The area was going through a lot of gentrification, and the café, and the other shops along that stretch of road, are all flats now. Shortly after, I moved in with Grant, and I couldn’t work from there because his kitchen wasn’t much more than a cupboard. So it all ground to halt.”
Plus, Grant didn’t like me monopolising his excuse of a kitchen to make fucking fairy cakes, as he always put it. I keep that nugget of humiliation under my belt.
With a final glance at the laptop, James wanders over to the fridge and pulls out a couple of beers. He flips the tops and hands me one. It feels like a peace offering and I’m more than happy to take it. The whole issue of Brighton has shocked him. I’m not sure why. It won’t make any difference to him where I go when I finally leave. The thought’s a heavy weight in my stomach, but it’s nothing more than the truth.
He takes a long glug from his bottle before he rests his feline gaze on me.
“I’ve a friend,” he says. “I might have mentioned him, I’m not sure. His name’s Jack. He and his husband have a very successful bakery, but they also do a lot of private commission work. I think you should talk to them. They know what they’re doing and they’ve made a great success of it. Contacts, Perry, they’re what make the wheels turn.” Chucking his empty bottle into the recycling, he heads for the door. “I’ll send him a text and get something sorted out,” he throws over his shoulder, as he wanders out of the kitchen.
* * *
JAMES
Escaping to my bedroom, I close my eyes as I slump against the door, taking in deep, steady breaths. I’ve had a shock, it’s the only way to put it. It’s the first I’ve heard of Perry wanting to set up on the South coast, and it’s come as a complete bombshell.
He’s got plans and ambitions and dreams and desires, and I admire him for it, just like I admire the way he wants to get his life back on track after the disaster of Grant. And what he says about having no ties in London, to people or places, is true in a blunt, stark way. There’s nothing to hold him, he’s as free as a bird, but knowing he wants to take to the air and fly far, far away is a hard and heavy punch to the gut. Not that Brighton’s that far, just an hour or so on the train, but it’s far enough to loosen the bonds we’ve formed. If he leaves the city, those bonds will unravel and fall away.
I’ve got used to him being here, with me. No, more than used to it, because that sounds like it’s something to be put up with, and Perry will never be that. He’s become an integral part of my home just like he’s become an integral part of my life, and I can’t imagine either without him.
For the first time in years, I look forward to coming home and closing the door on the day. The after work siren call of bars and clubs, full of heat and the smell of sex, has gone silent, and it’s all down to Perry.
Sinking down on the bed, I send Jack a message with a very brief explanation. If I can help Perry achieve what he wants, I will, even if I resent it, knowing it means he’ll go.
Jack and his husband Rory will be honest about what it means to set up and run a business of the type Perry wants on a full-time basis. It’ll be a useful reality check, just like looking at those disgusting rooms was. The phone vibrates in my hand, and I read Jack’s reply. Just as I expect he and Rory are more than happy to help, and I make arrangements for the four of us to meet later in the week because I sure as hell am going, too.
I throw my mobile aside and flop back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I’ll help Perry, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.
After a quick shower, I make my way back downstairs, to the kitchen filled with the warm and delicious aroma of the meal Perry’s cooked for us. My heart drops, knowing that times like this are numbered.
“I’ve made arrangements with Jack for us to meet later in the week, after work if that’s okay?” Perry’s dishing up the dinner. He looks at me, a grin breaking out over his face.
“That’s great, thank you.”
I nod but don’t say anything as I sit down.
Maybe running his own business single handedly from his own premises will turn out to be too much to take on; maybe he could do it part-time; maybe he’ll stay working for Elliot; maybe he’ll stay here and not talk about leaving. But they’re selfish thoughts, and all about what I want because that’s all my life has always been: what and who I want, on my terms.
But not this time. For the first time ever I’m thinking about what somebody else wants, about their dreams and ambitions, and I hate it.
Perry’s chatting away, about this and that, and I tell him as much as I can about my day, anything to not have to think about why it is I don’t want him to go.
