"James." Michael kissed his ear. "I started the game with Mayfair and Park Lane. You started the game with do not pass go, do not collect two hundred pounds. When you and I watch a bit of cinema, we're equal. Sampling wine at a vineyard, we're equal. Fucking," Michael lowered his voice, "seeing which of us can make the other come first, we're equal. But financially—no. So we have two choices. I can hoard my money. Or we can enjoy it together."
"One day you'll resent it," James said stubbornly, biting his lower lip.
"Says who?"
"
Take A Break
," James said, referring to a colorful lowbrow magazine featured prominently in supermarkets. "There was an article on keeping your man. My group read it in class. Well—at lunch. And relying on him for gifts is a sure means of driving him away."
"Want to keep your man?" Michael murmured, so pleased he wondered if they could make it back to Shepherd's Bush without ducking into someplace for a mutual wank. "Let him suit you up and see how gorgeous you are."
By then the little white-haired tailor was back again, cloth in hand and clearing his throat. Michael withdrew to a chair, enjoying the view as James was fitted, measured and fitted again. When the tailor measured James's inseam yet a third time—"Just to be sure"—Michael was tempted to protest. Mild and unassuming as the tailor looked, he was no doubt enjoying every trip up James's inner thigh, each time murmuring, "Dresses to the right..."
The dark blue suit with a faint pinstripe was finished by four o'clock. Their dinner reservations at Gardenia were for seven. Taking the new suit back to Shepherd's Bush, Michael was tempted to spend the interval in bed with James. But no. They'd never once had a proper date—cab, starter, entrée, dessert, kiss and
then
bed. At least once in their relationship, they'd do things conventionally.
So they spread a Scrabble board on the coffee table and played using Ms. Kakowski's rules. No score was kept and all words had to be two, three, or four letters. No penalty was issued for misspellings, but the word had to be corrected before the game went on. Michael offered "tack" and James immediately tried to form "kick" off it, spelling it "kik."
"Left out the letter c," Michael said.
James sighed. "Seriously, who thought up silent letters? Why include a letter if it's
silent
? Just to fuck with dyslexics?"
The doorbell chimed. Michael got up to answer it and found Germanotti on the front step. He hadn't quite uttered "Come in" before the other man bounded over the threshold.
"So sorry to burst in, you know I'd never interrupt, but there's a problem with—" Eyes ranging around the flat, Germanotti's gaze fell on James. He affected surprise. "Why. Michael. Who's this?"
"You know who he is. Bob Germanotti, this is James Campbell. James, you've heard me mention Germanotti. And he's heard about you. He was with me the night I decided to walk to Brixton Park."
"Bloody hell," Germanotti groaned. "I was trying to be discreet. Now you've made me sound like the asshole friend in
Pretty Woman
." He gave James a reassuring look. "I promise I am not Jason Alexander from
Pretty Woman
."
"No worries, mate," James smiled, coming around the sofa to put out a hand. Germanotti appeared mesmerized, the handshake lasting a beat longer than it should have.
"So what's happening?" James asked. "Textbook stampede? Some sort of word shortage?"
Germanotti giggled girlishly. Michael had to press a hand to his mouth to keep from bursting out laughing.
"Not so much. Just—just trouble with the McGuffin Reader. Wouldn't want to bore you. Michael, could I have a quick word?"
They went out on the front porch, closing the door behind them. Germanotti looked dazed. "Michael."
"Yes?"
"I've gone gay."
"It'll pass."
"Didn't say I wanted it to pass right away." Germanotti sounded mutinous.
"Fine. I give you permission to think of James the next time you sleep with Wendy."
Germanotti perked up. "Really? I had my birthday back in July, but Christmas is only a few weeks away..."
"The McGuffin Reader?" Michael prompted. It was a private gag between them, a nonexistent project referred to when supervisors were listening.
"The entire neighborhood knows about you and James. Lisa—you know, divorced blonde Lisa—came by your place looking for gardening advice and Frannie told her you buggered off to Shepherd's Bush to, well, get buggered. Lisa was devastated, but Frannie seemed fine with the whole thing."
"She is. And I knew already. Frannie rang me up to say so. We'd already told the kids, so she was free to tell anyone else whatever she wanted."
Germanotti, who had two sons of his own, looked pained. "How are Edward and Viv?"
Michael sighed. "Viv isn't doing well. We'll be starting family counseling soon."
"And Edward?"
"He followed me to Shepherd's Bush last Monday. Came up to the flat, had a look round, met James. We talked." Michael left out the details because he didn't want to get emotional, not with a lovely evening at Gardenia just around the corner. It had been a revelation to discover Edward had always viewed Michael as distant, unloving and literally perfect. The episode with Sharon—Michael guessing what happened and taking Edward's side over that of a seemingly responsible adult—had shaken Edward's notion of his father. The divorce and Michael's insistence on admitting everything, including his infidelity and James's prior occupation, had exploded that notion altogether. Edward was shy of James and shell shocked by his mother's growing pleasure in her own independence. It would take time. But Edward had ended the visit by telling Michael he loved him, and Michael, tearing up, had said it back.
"He's a good kid. He'll make it." Germanotti sounded unconvinced.
"He will." Michael smiled, patting the other man's shoulder reassuringly. "But it's good of you to worry. Know what? I don't miss my cubicle, but I've missed you. Come round for drinks tomorrow evening?"
"Thought you'd never ask. Tell James I said cheers," Germanotti said, and headed down the stairs.
***
Around six o'clock, James allowed Michael to attire him in the day's purchases—black silk socks, creamy silk boxers, white shirt with pearl buttons, brass cufflinks, waistcoat, coat and Italian shoes. They got through the operation with only a kiss or two, then engaged a cab to take them to Gardenia.
The traffic was beastly. The cab would roll forward a few meters, only to halt for two or three minutes at a time. The driver, a middle-aged lady named Amira, made only a few stabs at conversation, falling into tactful silence when James slid into Michael's arms.
"I adore the beard," James said, kissing Michael's ginger-furred cheek. "But tomorrow I'm shaving it off and making you start all over again."
"What about my hair?" It had come in fully. If Michael wanted to keep the Caesar, he'd need to cut it soon.
"Leave it. Let it get even longer," James breathed, climbing into Michael's lap. Michael didn't protest when hands unzipped his trousers and drew him out. He made a soft noise as James rode him a little, the dark navy silk between his cheeks caressing Michael's cock.
"Don't come. Not so much as a drop," James whispered in Michael's ear, "or you'll ruin my new pants."
They made out in the cab's cigarette- and cigar-smelling backseat until Amira called, "Clear sailing now, boys!"
James dismounted; Michael tucked his erect member back into his trousers with effort. Still indecent, Michael pulled off his jacket and put it in his lap. James checked his reflection in the door window and smoothed his hair. From the many times sloe-eyed, smiling Amira glanced in her rearview mirror, she'd been watching the action all along.
"What do I owe you?" Michael asked as Amira pulled up outside Gardenia.
"Just this." She passed him her card with her car number and company ID. "Next time you two need a ride, call me. I've had many couples in my cab, many, many. But none so beautiful as you."
"But... the fare..." Michael spluttered. Amira shook her head, waved at James and pulled away.
At precisely seven o'clock, Gardenia's concierge led Michael and James to a central table draped in white linen. Appearing as if conjured, a waiter poured water into cut-crystal glasses and presented them with menus.
"Tonight," the waiter announced in rich Shakespearean tones, "we offer trout with potato compote. Ham hock terrine with onion marmalade. Crispy chicken breasts with fresh thyme. Risotto with squash and sage."
"The trout," Michael said.
"The crispy chicken breasts," James said.
"I recommend Riesling or Pinot Grigio as an accompaniment," the waiter intoned.
"Water," Michael said.
"Diet Coke," James said.
"Excellent." Making no secret of his disgust, the waiter stalked away.
They sampled the starter, a whole grain loaf spread with tangerine marmalade. James pressed a foot against Michael's leg, stroking him from ankle to knee. Then he took out a pen and pad, another of Ms. Kakowski's requirements. Writing something down, he pushed the paper at Michael.
Your hot.
Michael smiled. Locating his own pen, he wrote back one word:
You're
. James had difficulty with contractions.
James scowled, adding something and pushing the paper back again.
You're a dick.
Michael marked through the full stop. Adding a word, he pushed the paper across the table.
You're a dick magnet.
It took James a second to work out the unfamiliar written word. Then he looked up, grinning. "Am I?"
"Thought I'd have to fight Germanotti for the privilege of taking you out tonight."
Biting his lower lip, James wrote something else. He hesitated, watching Michael for a moment before pushing it over.
Love you.
Michael took a deep breath. He'd known, known for a while, yet it didn't make the declaration any less sweet. He added something.
I Love you more.
James thought for a moment. Finally he added something and returned the napkin.
I Love you more then chikin.
They were still laughing over that when the entrées arrived. The waiter, looking still disgusted by the lack of culinary decorum, set down their plates and drifted off to assist more deserving patrons. Reaching across the table, Michael took James's hand and brushed his lips against the knuckles. That taste of bread had been sufficient. He wasn't hungry for anything else. Anything except James.
"Keep that up and we might get bashed," James murmured, cutting his eyes to the left.
Glancing over, Michael saw a stylish blond couple. The woman was intent on her wine; the man was glaring at Michael and James. Shrugging, Michael turned back to his trout. It wasn't particularly good; Frannie's cooking was better. James seemed equally unimpressed with his chicken. They both decided to forgo dessert.
"I need a piss before we go," James said.
Michael smiled. "Lead the way."
The men's room was all white tiles, fluorescent lights and gleaming urinals. James headed toward one and Michael stopped him. "Let's take the stall."
James broke into a slow grin. "Right."
The stall was a tight fit for two grown men. To lock the door Michael had to put his back to it while holding James from behind. James pulled out his cock. Taking it in hand, Michael aimed for him, aroused by the stream of bright yellow urine. Then he heard the men's room door open and went even harder. As James finished up, some other man unzipped in front of the nearest urinal and started to piss.
"Shake it gentle," James whispered. "Don't splash my suit."
Michael obeyed, pressing his massive erection against James's ass at the same time.
"Oh, yes," James whispered. "Should've guessed you'd enjoy beginner's water sports."
"I'd enjoy anything with you." Michael released the other man's cock long enough to dig into his wallet and locate a condom. Protection didn't matter, but James would need the lubricant...
As Michael undid his own fly, he heard the men's room door open again. The first patron was using one of the sinks; another was unzipping. Tearing open the foil packet, Michael worked the tight, slippery condom into place. Then he unfastened James's trousers, pushing down his shorts to expose that firm, round ass.
"Bend forward," he whispered. James did so, head level with the tank as he gripped it. Cock poking between James's warm cheeks, Michael pushed in harder than usual. James made a high pained noise that echoed off the white-tiled walls.
Footsteps neared the stall. James looked over his shoulder at Michael. Michael was hot all over, trembling with arousal; James's entire body had turned pink.
Putting a finger to his lips, Michael pressed up his ass even harder, filling James until the other man gasped. He shook the tank so hard the porcelain lid rattled, but despite his pain Michael knew James wanted more. He could tell by the way James kept their bodies together, pushing back instead of sliding forward. Soon Michael found the correct angle. There was no doubt; James transformed from tight all over to supple with pleasure. He began to moan, low in his throat but still audible.
"Oi! Mate! All right in there?" A man rattled the stall's locked door.
Michael heard rapid whispers beside the urinals, then nervous laughter. But he couldn't focus solely on his own exhibitionism; he had to make James come. From the other man's face—mouth clenched, eyes shut tight—it wouldn't happen easily. Ignoring the men outside, the urinals flushing, those soft voices, Michael pulled James upright. He pressed both hands against James's belly, inducing another, louder cry. Now at maximum penetration, holding James tight so he couldn't break rhythm if he tried, Michael began thrusting up and up, determined and relentless.
"James. Let go," Michael commanded, not caring who heard. Grasping his own cock, James began pulling wildly.
"Let go, James," Michael said again, leaning against the locked door so hard the entire stall shook. "Let go, let g—"