Sports kit on sale, grocery offers, car parts discounted, junk, junk, junk…uh-huh, not junk. Ollie turned the familiar, embossed, watermarked, gold-leafed for all he knew or cared, envelope over to see the handwriting. Yep.
Mother.
Jesus, it was a Norman Bates moment.
He left the car on the driveway, pretty sure it wasn’t about to rain, and walked slowly into the house, pondering the weight of the envelope.
He made some tea.
Then he opened a bottle of wine and drank half of it from a pint glass. It nicely topped up his buzz from lunch.
When he felt strong enough, he slipped a finger under the flap and slid out the creamy folded paper. It took a while longer before he had enough courage to unfold it and read.
Darling,
How are you? We do have telephones in Devon, you know. Don’t see it as an imposition to ring. Although do remember we’re twelve hours behind you. Or is it in front of? Thirteen? The clocks went back the other day, anyway. It’s all looking rather lovely here.
So, I’ll be there probably by mid-afternoon Thursday the fourth if those ghastly airplanes are on time. Don’t do anything special, of course. But do make sure the place is all aired. I think fresh flowers in all but the bathrooms, yes? Not lilies in the main guest suite though, poor David. His wife. I did write and tell you about Beatrice
,
didn’t I? Anyway, whatever goes for tasteful from a local florist. Don’t buy in especially from Auckland, will you?
I think we’ll cook out on the veranda the first night, so do make sure we have everything. Remember those darling Angus sirloin steaks we had that year? When was that? There’ll be six of us. Get some decent plonk in. I’ll leave the choice to you, but that local Pinot Noir we had that time in Nelson was rather good. See if you can get some of that.
What else? Oh, don’t make that face. I can see you now, sitting in that ridiculous little summer crib all scrunched up and sour. I’m only staying until Christmas is over. You know I can’t bear the ghastly commercialism of it over here. David needs to recuperate after nursing Bea through that horrible business and then the funeral, which was rather superb. Did you see it on the news? I suppose not over there. The PM came. Horrible little turncoat. David’s bringing some new assistant apparently. She’s the daughter of someone or other. I think she’s helping him cope. And yes, I did mentally use quotes on that. Jonas and Luke are coming too, of course. You’d better make sure there’s a spare room ready just in case they have one of their spats. Do you remember that time in Cornwall? I couldn’t have put that scene in a novel. Oh, wait. I did!
Oh, and…(insert a big drum roll here. I know how you love theatrics) I have some rather exciting news. It’s about Oliver, of course. Don’t you dare crumple my letter! I will tell you more when I see you. Don’t come to the airport—your little roller-skate is so silly and small. Hopeless. But do send a car and driver.
Love you, as always. Yes, don’t make that face again. I do. Always.
Kisses and hugs until next week,
RF
Uh-huh.
Ollie wasn’t sure what to do first.
His mother was…he checked his watch as if this would help…four days away from arriving in New Zealand.
It appeared he’d missed a memo somewhere along the way.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was clear that he couldn’t write back in time for his mother to get the letter, even though
do not under any circumstances come here
didn’t take all that long to actually put on paper. No, it was the week it would take to meander its way across the world that would make that gesture redundant.
Although he hadn’t rung home for over a month, that didn’t make this his fault. His mother didn’t do computers. She had no email. She obviously didn’t do Skype. Even the thought of her on such a thing made him smile faintly, as if any of this was funny, which it clearly wasn’t.
David, however, did do email. He rather had to, given what he did for a living.
Dear David,
This is Ollie. Although I expect you can see that from the email address. Can you please print out the attached and get it to my mother as soon as possible? As in today. Courier it if need be.
Thank you,
Ollie
He opened a Word doc and pondered what to write for a while. He wasn’t really going to say don’t come, of course. She wouldn’t take any notice even if he did. She hadn’t taken any notice when he’d swallowed a whole bottle of her pills aged eight. Just a bit of silly nonsense, apparently.
Dear Mother,
His fingers tapped the keys, waiting for inspiration.
He drank the rest of the wine and opened another bottle, adding half of that to the pint glass.
Thank you for letting me know in good time about your plans for next week. I got the letter today.
Damn it.
See you Thursday.
Ollie
Love you, too.
Ollie had long ago resigned himself to the tsunami that was his mother.
He was polishing off the second bottle of wine when he heard from the hallway, “Hi! It’s me. You ready?”
§§§
Ollie hadn’t practised heavy drinking from a very early age without being able to pass himself off as completely sober when the need arose. Which made it very aggravating, therefore, when Skint, eyeing him, asked, “Are you drunk?”
They were making their way up the beach toward the small, enclosed bay that was safe for surfing.
Ollie fished in his beach bag and pulled out a water bottle. “Of course not. It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
He waited a beat, and then added, very annoyed with everything at the moment, “But if I
were,
it’s totally none of your business.”
Skint gritted his teeth a little then nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”
Ollie’s brows rose. He’d never met anyone before who took pointed criticism as well as this man did. It made him feel incredibly guilty, especially as the guy was right—he
was
drunk—so he added unexpectedly, “My mother’s coming. It was a bit of a shock.”
Skint asked slowly, “You don’t get on?”
Ollie thought about this for while. Get on. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or spit. Instead of doing either, and possibly because he was drunk, he added, “She’s Veronica Fitzroy. Ronnie Fitzroy.”
He waited. He could feel Skint’s gaze upon him and stepped a little faster on the sand to outstrip the intensity.
“The author?”
“Yup.”
“The one who writes that series about—?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But isn’t she related to—?”
“Yes.”
“She—Wait a minute.
Oliver!
Her character is named after you?”
Ollie shuddered slightly and wished he’d brought wine and not water. “I’m named after him. He came first. Oliver Fitzroy. She’s been writing the Oliver books for twenty-five years. Literary masterpieces, of course.”
“Dunno. Never read one. But aren’t they famous—well infamous because Oliver, I mean
that
Oliver is…?”
“Jesus. Just say it. Gay. Yes. Oliver Fitzroy is the prepubescent gay prodigy. She was the first, the
front runner
, the legitimate voice of a new generation. Blah, blah.”
“And she called you after him? Jesus. That’s a bit…”
“Yes, tell me what that is. Because I’ve been trying to explain it to her since I was seven and found myself in a school lavatory with four…” Even drunk, he wasn’t going into that story, so he swiftly changed the subject. “Seal.”
“Huh?”
“Over there. A seal. Sea lion. Big fat thing with the cute face?”
Skint was suitably distracted as they skirted the sunbathing animal, and then they arrived at the beach. Which, predictably, was empty.
Ollie rummaged once more in his bag and produced his book and tartan rug. He was waiting for Skint to trot off to the waves before digging out his shortbread. Quickest cure he’d ever found for thoughts of his mother was sugar. Well, that and alcohol.
He sat on the rug and gestured imperiously at the waves. “Go. Enjoy.” Inwardly, he set a timer and reckoned thirty seconds should about do it.
Skint, seeming thoughtful, and giving him the occasional little glance, dropped his bag and stripped off his T-shirt and then his shorts.
Ollie groaned. But it was a very quiet sound of agony that went unheard over the crashing of the crystal clear, turquoise and white water. Skint was wearing a black swimsuit. He was so lean that despite being elastic at the waist, the fabric didn’t cling to the hollows and ridges of his hips and abs. And there were ridges. Many of them, and all in perfect, stark relief right in front of Ollie’s face. Ollie had the interesting thought that the suit wouldn’t last long in the phenomenal strength of the waves, when Skint fished out a draw cord, sucked in his breath and yanked the waist very tight indeed. He picked up his board and began to walk away.
Ollie stared at the man’s back in shock. “Wetsuit! You can’t go in without a suit!”
Skint didn’t bother to turn. He merely gave a little backward, dismissive wave of his hand and jogged toward the translucent ocean.
Ten seconds then.
Ollie counted in his head as he watched the man leap athletically through the shallow part until he was deep enough to launch his board to the front and throw himself onto it. A wave rolled over him.
One
. He took a while to appear on the far side of the swell.
Two
. He was still in standing depth and stood, appearing a little unsure.
Three
. He pushed a little deeper, clinging to the board through another powerful swell.
Four
. Now he was out with the big breakers.
Five
. He caught one, but it washed over him before he could stand.
Six
. He seemed to be regarding the even bigger surf at the mouth of the bay.
Seven
. He began to paddle in.
Eight
. Knee depth.
Nine
. The board was retrieved, and he came toward the blanket, which Ollie had helpfully picked up and was holding out.
Ten
.
“F-uck-ing h-ell!”
Ollie nodded and pulled out a thermos. “Something hot?”
The other man’s teeth were chattering too much to reply, so he sank into the sand and held out a shaking hand.
They sat in mutual silence, Ollie congratulating himself and wishing he’d brought a camera, and the other man staring aggrieved at the perfect swell and break of the tantalizing waves, and occasionally casting his gaze around the empty beach of pristine, white sand. Ollie took pity on Skint and let him have all the tea.
It was so peaceful, he felt so relaxed, that he said without thinking it through too much, “
I’m
not gay, by the way. I thought I should tell you.
Oliver
Fitzroy
is gay, but I’m not.” He was eleven thousand miles away, so he could be whatever he damned well wanted to be.
“Okay.” Skint carried on staring at the waves then added with a puzzled tone, “I was gonna say I bet your mum’s glad about that, but…maybe not?” He turned and glanced at Ollie expectantly.
Ollie smiled, a bitter little gesture of remembrance. “Nope. Not happy at all. She’s tried hard enough over the years to convert me.”
“Jesus. That’s completely…fucked up.”
Ollie shrugged. It was what it was.
It was very warm sitting in the strong sunshine, which would last for at least another hour or two. Ollie lay back on the rug, which Skint had shed once he’d stopped shivering. He was falling into a post-drinking slump of self-pity and lassitude. He needed to eat something, do something, have something he currently didn’t have, but what that something was had been eluding him since he was seven.
Skint tapped his arm, and Ollie opened his eyes to find a bottle of sunscreen being thrust at him. “Sun’s strong here. You’ll burn.”
Ollie closed his eyes again. “I never burn.” To prove his point, he stripped off his T-shirt and turned over face down to feel the intense, deep and restorative heat on his back.
Liquid cold squirted onto him, and before he could complain, a cool hand began to spread it around. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. It seemed weirdly intimate for a man to put sun lotion on another. Perhaps it was an army thing. As if the other man was reading his thoughts, Skint muttered, “Buddy, buddy system. Sorry, I can’t let a mate be a prick, even if he’s working really hard at it.”
Ollie twisted his head to look up at him, rising onto his forearms, the slick hand now gliding over his prominent shoulder blades. “I let you go in the waves.”
“Yeah, well, you couldn’t have stopped me. I’m probably the biggest prick anyone will ever meet.”
“Not when you first came out of the water. Trust me.”
Shit
. Not gay, but commenting on the size of the guy’s cock—admitting he’d noticed it…
Fortunately, the other man only slapped him lightly on the small of his back and handed him the bottle. “Please?”
Skint lay down expectantly on his stomach. Perhaps other guys got brought up understanding these rules. Touch was okay as long as it was only on your back. You didn’t get a mate to smooth lotion on your belly. Ollie didn’t want Skint to observe his front, as clearly his cock didn’t understand these rules of playing the straight game, so he scrunched quickly to a cross-legged position alongside the prone figure and squeezed some of the lotion onto Skint’s powerful shoulders.
“Won’t it be a bit cramped in that little cottage of yours with your mum staying?”
Ollie, totally engrossed in watching his fingers glide over the flawless skin beneath them, snorted, and then at Skint’s quizzical expression explained, “She’s flying into Queenstown. We have…she has a place there.”
“That’s my dream location. I’m going to buy a place there when sh…I mean, shit, it’s just so expensive there. But that’s where all the really good adventurous training places are. Do you…does she have an apartment near the lake? I’d literally fuck someone to have an apartment on the lake.”
Ollie sighed inwardly, but couldn’t see any way around it except by lying, and he was beginning to get confused with the number and complexity of the lies he’d already told this man. He capped the bottle and admitted, “We have a station on the heights. Twenty thousand hectares. Apparently. I’ve always wondered how they know. I mean, have they, like, counted them?”