Lavender & Gold - 4. The House with the Rose Coloured Memories

CHAPTER FOUR

The House with the Rose Coloured Memories

The next few weeks passed in much the same way. Monday nights Mark would turn up, sometimes they’d have a meal or a couple of drinks first, and then they would shag like bunnies until they fell away to blissful oblivion. Ben felt like a man a decade younger. Not that thirty-five was any age at all, but it had been a long time since he had engaged in a physical relationship with such reckless abandon, and he didn’t think he’d ever wanted just one person so intensely or so constantly before.

So it was with great regret that he informed Mark, on the evening of the fourth Monday, that they would not be able to do this the following week.

‘Why not?’ Mark asked, sitting up in bed and licking his lip nervously. ‘Have I . . . am I being too—’

‘No!’ Ben interrupted. ‘No, not at all. It’s just . . . My parents have been nagging me to come over for dinner, and I’m running out of excuses. With all the time I’ve been spending in America lately it feels kind of shitty to say no, really . . .’

Mark nodded. ‘No, I get that . . . Where do they live?’

‘Stevenage,’ Ben replied. ‘About half an hour by train.’

‘Could I maybe come over after?’

‘I don’t know how long I’ll be there, really . . . Maybe?’

‘All right.’ Mark looked miserable, and Ben put his arms around him, pulling him close.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ben murmured. ‘I’ll make it up to you. Only a couple of weeks left of the play now.’

‘Good,’ said Mark.

Ben wasn’t so sure that it was. He had no idea what they would do when the play came to an end and he’d have to get back to shooting films. He had two big shoots lined up for the autumn—one film, to be shot in the States, and several episodes for the next series of Hathaway for ITV. Another film would be released in November, and that would include a press tour, television appearances, photo shoots and all manner of work. For all the six-day work weeks and the rehearsals that had preceded them, the theatre was a nice break from the circus of his every day life. At least he’d have another week off once they finished.

It wasn’t that Ben minded the work. He had always liked keeping himself busy. He was perfectly happy working long days, travelling a lot and having little time off. Other people might have gotten burnt out quickly from the work load he took on, but Ben had never had any such vulnerability.

Now that he had Mark, however—and though no such words had directly been spoken, Ben did consider himself to be in some form of a relationship with the boy—things were very, very different.

Ben took the train out to Stevenage the following Monday afternoon. Most days he would have taken his car, as he had little opportunity to drive it, but he suspected his parents would want to serve him wine, and it would be a shame to have to decline. His parents’ house was on the eastern edge of the town, close to Box Wood. His mother came out and greeted him on the front steps, hugging him.

‘Benjamin!’ she said happily. ‘It’s so good to see you! How is the play going?’

‘Fine, fine,’ said Ben as he walked inside. ‘It’s going very well. I trust you’ve read the reviews?’

‘Of course we have!’ said his mother. ‘What do you take us for? We’ve decided to come see you on closing night, assuming you can still get us tickets?’

‘Of course!’ said Ben with a grin.

Adelaide Connor was a short but powerfully built woman with thick, sandy blonde hair, a West Yorkshire accent and a no nonsense attitude. She was a music teacher and children’s choir mistress. Her husband, William, was, in contrast, like his son, tall and originally dark-haired, but he was mostly grey now. He had retired as an engineer, though he had at one point also been a moderately successful stage actor. Their home, the home in which Ben had grown up, was modest but very comfortable.

In the kitchen, Ben’s father was hard at work on dinner. He wiped his hands on his apron and gave his son a hug.

‘So,’ he said, patting his shoulder, ‘how’s the love life? Meet anyone special lately?’

Ben rolled his eyes and smiled. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

‘Really?’ said his mother. ‘Perhaps I ought to ring Carol and tell her not to come . . .’

‘Carol?’ Ben frowned.

‘Carol Stevens,’ said his father, returning to his cooking. ‘You remember Carol Stevens, don’t you?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Ben. An image of a tall, skinny, freckled girl with fiery red hair and torn jeans flashed into his mind. ‘Of course I do.’ He looked at his mother. ‘Mum . . . Were you going to try to set me up with Carol Stevens?’

‘No!’ said his mother, waving her hand dismissively. ‘Of course not. No, I just ran into her the other day, she asked how you were, so I invited her over for tonight. It’s not like you have Facebook, not easy for old friends to keep up with you in person.’ She studied his face quizzically. ‘So, you’ve met someone, have you?’

‘I suppose,’ said Ben, shrugging one shoulder. He always felt like a school boy under his mother’s gaze.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘What’s she like?’

Ben fidgeted. ‘I . . . I’m not really ready to talk about it yet,’ he tried weakly.

‘Oh, come off it!’ his mother scoffed. ‘Can you blame me for being interested? You haven’t had a girlfriend in, what, six or seven years?’

‘I haven’t got a girlfriend now,’ Ben pointed out. ‘I’ve just . . . met someone. Someone I like. But it’s not really serious, and I don’t know if it ever will be, so . . .’ He trailed off. Then he clapped his hands together, turning to his father, who was painstakingly measuring up his herbs and spices. ‘Dad! Anything I can do?’

‘Salad,’ came the response. ‘Lettuce, cucumber, cherry tomatoes, spring onions. Bottom drawer in the fridge.’ William Connor while cooking was not a man to be trifled with. The very antithesis to his son, who did everything by eye measurement and gut feeling, the elder Mr. Connor never deviated from his recipes, and always knew exactly what he was doing next. ‘You can make the vinaigrette, too, if you promise not to overdo the mustard.’

Ben laughed. ‘No, I think I’ll leave that up to you. You nearly murdered me last time I got it wrong.’

Just then the door bell rang, and a few minutes later, Carol Stevens stepped into the kitchen followed by Ben’s mother.

‘Hello, Benjamin,’ she said, smiling. ‘Lord, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?’

‘Carol!’ Ben put down the knife with which he had been chopping cherry tomatoes in half, and went to kiss her cheek. ‘How are you? What have you been up to?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ said Carol. ‘I’m in paediatrics.’

‘Oh, fantastic! Love kids!’ said Ben, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. He felt oddly uncomfortable, rather certain now that his mother really had meant to set him up with Carol. A few months ago he might have rolled with it. Carol had grown up well. She had always been sort of pretty, but now she was verging on gorgeous, and they had at one point been quite close. He would have, at the very least, taken her out a few times, but that wasn’t an option anymore. Now, all he could think was, She’s not Mark, and that was all he needed to know to be absolutely certain that he was not interested.

Oh, hell, I am falling so hard . . .

* * *

‘That was really fantastic, Dad,’ said Ben, wiping his mouth on a napkin.

‘There’s dessert, too,’ said his father, getting up and turning towards the kitchen.

‘Are you trying to fatten me up?’ asked Ben. ‘I’m perfectly healthy, you know, I need to look this way for my part! At the end I’m meant to be imprisoned and emaciated.’ He made to get up to help clear the plates away, but his mother put a hand on his shoulder.

‘No, no, you stay here and entertain our guest,’ she said. ‘Have some more wine!’ Then she started gathering the plates.

Ben smiled and shook his head. He picked up the wine bottle and raised his eyebrows at Carol in question.

‘Oh! Yes, please.’ He filled both their glasses with what remained in the bottle. Carol picked up her glass and took a sip. ‘So,’ she said. ‘No need to ask what you’ve been up to. Been a busy little bee, haven’t you?’

Ben chuckled. ‘Yes, I suppose I have. Especially these past couple of years.’

‘I’ve been following you career, of course,’ said Carol with a nod. ‘Hard not to, with your face plastered across every billboard for the past three months. You know, before this latest PR debacle I had quite forgotten to think about you for nearly a year . . . Since the last series of Hathaway ended.’

‘Good for you,’ said Ben, with a smirk. ‘I have it on good authority that I’m annoyingly unforgettable.’

Carol laughed. ‘Oh, that is bad!’ She had another sip of wine. ‘Truer than you’d think, though. I made the mistake of mentioning to a coworker that I used to know you. She pretty much lost her shit. Practically begged me to get her your autograph. Had to remind her that I said “used to”, and that I’d hardly seen you in, what, a decade?’

‘Has it been that long?’

‘It has. You know, it’s scary how obsessed some people—especially women,‘ she took another sip, ‘especially women of a certain age—get with you. My coworker’s forty.’

Ben shook his head and smiled. ‘I could write out an autograph for her if you like.’

‘She would literally die. Have a heart attack and expire. Bless her!’ Carol grinned.

Ben gazed at her for a moment. ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ he said softly.

‘You have,’ said Carol.

‘Oh?’

‘Not at first glance, but there’s something . . . I expect it would be hard not to, life you lead.’

Ben took a sip of his wine and grimaced. ‘I try not to let it get to me.’

‘How’s that working out for you?’

‘Not very well, until recently,’ Ben confessed.

‘What happened? You find something to ground you?’ Carol cocked her head to one side. ‘Someone?’

Ben smiled, looking away.

‘You have!’ Carol exclaimed. ‘Oh, do tell!’

‘Haha, no,’ said Ben, licking his lips. ‘Already had this conversation with Mum and Dad today. I’m not telling.’

‘Why not?’ Carol pouted.

‘Because a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,’ said Ben, still smiling. ‘Because I don’t know if it’ll work out yet, so we’re keeping it on the down-low, that’s why.’

‘Well,’ said Carol, ‘if it doesn’t work out, you can always have my coworker.’

Ben laughed.

‘When was the last time you had a proper girlfriend, anyway?’

‘Oh, God . . . Ages.’ Ben ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t date other actors, you know. That much ego in one room can only lead to disaster. But dating, for want of a better word, regular women has been . . . difficult. Turns out a lot of them were more in love with one of my on-screen characters than they were with me.’

Carol smiled. ‘I used to have such a crush on you, you know.’ This caught Ben by surprise.

‘Really?’ he asked.

‘No, you dunce!’ Carol grinned and kicked him under the table. ‘Back when we were friends you were awkward and gawky and too tall for your body.’

‘Oh, says you, who had legs up to your armpits, frizzy hair and mosquito bites for tits!’ Ben shot back with a smirk.

‘See?’ said Carol, rolling her eyes. ‘Totally conceited! Your girlfriend isn’t doing a very good job of grounding you.’ She stuck out her tongue at him. ‘I think your mum was fixing to set us up, though.’

‘You noticed that too?’

‘Well, if you ever date someone you can’t be seen with, I can always act as a cover,’ said Carol, draining her glass.

Ben just smiled, taking another sip of his wine.

‘Wait . . . are you dating someone you can’t be seen with?’ Carol leaned across the table, studying his face in much the same way as his mother tended to. ‘Are you seeing someone married?’

Ben laughed out loud at this. ‘No, I’m not seeing someone married!’ he said. ‘I’m seeing someone . . . complicated.’

Carol shrugged, leaning back in her seat again. ‘Well, as long as she makes you happy.’

Ben nodded. ‘Yeah.’

* * *

In the taxi on his way home from King’s Cross, Ben switched on his mobile, which had been off during dinner, to find two missed calls and a text from Mark. The text simply read, How was dinner? and had been sent about an hour previously. Ben tried to call back, but it went straight to voicemail.

When he disembarked the cab in Soho and walked towards the entrance to his building, it had begun to drizzle. Ben first only noticed the figure sitting on the ground next to the entrance out of the corner of his eye, but as he reached the front door, the figure stirred, and Ben looked down at it.

He blinked. ‘Mark?’

‘Hey.’ Mark put out the cigarette he’d been smoking in a puddle before meeting his gaze. He exhaled a puff of smoke. ‘How was dinner?’

‘Er, fine,’ said Ben. ‘What are you doing here? Have you been here long?’

Mark shrugged, struggling to get up. ‘A while. Just thought I’d—’ Ben reached for his hand and pulled him to his feet, ‘—wait for you here, since my mobile ran out of battery. Thanks. God, my legs are stiff . . .’ He stretched his back, groaning loudly.

‘If you’d gone home you could have just charged it,’ said Ben, but he smiled.

‘Yeah, but then I would probably have fallen asleep and missed out on seeing you.’ Mark entwined his fingers with Ben’s as Ben pulled his keys out of his pocket with his other hand to unlock the door. ‘What time is it, anyway?’

‘Half eleven.’ Ben let go of Mark’s hand and ran his fingers through his green hair. He must have dyed it in the past week, because the last time he’d seen him it had been washed out blue. It was slightly wet from the rain. ‘You’re lucky it’s summer, or you’d catch a cold,’ he remarked.

‘Yes, Mum!’ said Mark with a smirk. ‘So, are we going inside or staying out here in the pleasant weather?’

‘Inside,’ Ben murmured. ‘Need to get you out of these wet clothes and into my bed.’

‘Mm, I like the sound of that,’ said Mark with his crooked smile, and they went inside.

* * *

Ben woke up on Saturday, feeling oddly nervous. Or, perhaps not nervous, but there was a sort of light, wiggly feeling in his stomach. Tonight was the final night of The Crucible. His parents were coming to see him perform, and after tonight it would be a long time before he’d have to don the mask of John Proctor again. More importantly, after tonight he would have an entire week to spend however he pleased, and he knew instinctively that the only way he wanted to spend it was with Mark, preferably naked in bed, only leaving the bedroom to eat fabulous food he had mostly denied himself while keeping up his skinny, emaciated appearance for the part.

In his next film he would be playing a soldier and would have to beef up considerably. He was not looking forward to all the time he’d have to spend at the gym between read-throughs once he got to the States. He’d been every other day or so during the last couple of weeks in the West End as well, and would continue for the next week to begin building some proper muscle mass, but he had a far more rigorous schedule to look forward to in the coming weeks.

The telephone rang just after noon, and Ben went to answer it. It was Alice.

‘I don’t want you to be alarmed, but . . . you should probably check The Sun. I’m texting you a link.’ As she said it, Ben’s mobile buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocked and sat down on his bed.

The article featured a less than flattering picture of Ben, and the title, Pretty, witty and gay? Benny’s secret male lover.

For a moment, Ben could do nothing but stare. How had they found out? How had anyone at all found out?

‘Ben?’ said Alice. ‘You there?’

‘Yes, I’m reading,’ said Ben softly.

The star of ITV’s Hathaway and sci-fi blockbuster Singularity Sky, due to make his last performance as John Proctor in The Crucible in the West End tonight, may be facing a witch hunt of his own soon. Rumours are circulating the blogosphere that Benjamin Connor (35) is involved with a pretty, young . . . man.

‘I have no idea where they’re getting this,’ Alice continued, ‘but Harry’s in a right state trying to draft a statement to deny it.’

‘Alice . . .’

‘I wouldn’t take this too seriously, this is The Sun we’re talking about, but I did think you should know. This sort of libel—’

‘Alice, listen—’

‘What?’

‘It’s—it isn’t . . .’

‘True? Of course not!’

‘No, I mean,’ Ben swallowed, ‘I mean it isn’t libel.’

There was a brief silence.

‘What . . . what are you saying?’ asked Alice slowly.

Ben put his mobile down on his nightstand and ran a hand through his hair, puffing out a sigh. ‘I . . . I have been involved in a . . . relationship with another man for some weeks now.’ As he said it, the fact hit him full in the face. It was out. Somehow it was out, and there was no way of putting it back in. And another thing hit him equally hard: He hadn’t told anyone about his relationship with Mark. Not a single soul. Which meant that the information must have come from Mark. He felt suddenly sick.

‘Oh,’ said Alice. ‘I, erm . . . I mean, I’m happy for you, if this is . . . But, Ben, who is this person?’

Ben shook his head. ‘His name is Mark Harrison. He’s just someone who snuck into a party I was at and gave me his number. I . . . I thought he . . .’ He trailed off. Cleared his throat. Fell silent.

‘You think . . . You think he went to the press?’ asked Alice.

‘What other explanation is there?’ Ben murmured. ‘Has to be . . .’

He heard Alice take a deep breath on the other end of the line. ‘Harry’s gonna want to talk to you about this.’

‘I know,’ Ben replied. ‘Tell him to call me in an hour. No, two. Something I need to sort out.’

‘All right,’ said Alice. ‘Ben . . . I’m sorry.’

‘Me too.’

He wanted to scream, or cry, or be sick. Instead, he put his phone in his pocket, stood up and went to put on his shoes. A minute later he was out the door, hailing a cab.

He had to knock a few times before he could hear footsteps on the other side of the door. The door was pulled open, and a sleepy looking Mark looked up at him, astonishment evident in his face. Then he smiled happily. ‘Well, this is a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Ben did not smile back. Instead he pushed past Mark into the tiny flat. He pulled up his mobile with the Sun article still showing and handed it to Mark without a word.

Mark frowned at him, but took the phone. His expression turned from puzzlement to shock as he read, and Ben thought bitterly, He should be the one with a BAFTA, he’s a better actor than I am.

‘Well?’ he said at last. Mark looked up at him.

‘Well, what?’ he said.

‘I haven’t told anyone about us,’ said Ben. ‘That leaves you.’

‘You—’ Mark stared at him, his expression one of incredulity. ‘You don’t believe I have anything to do with this?’

‘If you can offer some other explanation I’ll happily listen,’ said Ben, coldly.

‘I haven’t—I didn’t go to the press!’ Mark’s voice rose in pitch. ‘How could you even think that? I—’

‘They all warned me about this, you know,’ said Ben, cutting him off. ‘They said not to date people outside the business, that nothing good would come of it, that you never know if they’re for real or if they are just after their fifteen minutes of fame. I never believed them. I never for one second believed that you might be the kind of person who would—’

‘Well, clearly you did!’ Mark spoke over him. ‘Or you wouldn’t be so quick to snap to this judgment now, would you? For fuck’s sake, Ben, when have I ever given you reason to doubt me?’

‘I don’t know anything about you!’ Ben snapped.

‘You know more about me than pretty much anyone else in the world!’ Mark retorted. ‘Believe what you like, but I haven’t held anything back! I have told you everything I could think to tell you about myself. I’ve bared my fucking soul to you!’

Ben gave out a short, humourless laugh. ‘Then explain to me how they found out.’

‘How the fuck should I know?’ Mark replied, his voice gaining in volume. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Wild guess? Shot in the dark? Maybe someone saw us. A cabbie. The mailman. The guy who delivers Thai food. Who the bollocks knows? But it wasn’t me!’

Mark’s body was tense, defensive. He stood his ground, bare feet planted a good bit apart. Ben squared his jaw, meeting his gaze with fierce, angry determination. Then he looked away.

‘I have to go. My publicist will be calling me in a bit, I need to work out what to tell him.’ He turned his back on Mark, taking a few steps towards the door.

‘Hang on a minute!’ Mark took three long strides and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back around to face him. ‘You can’t just come here and accuse me and then just walk away!’

‘Watch me,’ said Ben, putting as much ice into the words as he could muster, summoning forth the darkness in his voice, the one he reserved for the stage or the camera, for villains and anti-heroes. Mark released his arm, taking a step back, and Ben turned away again.

‘Ben,’ said Mark weakly. ‘Please . . . Wait.’

Ben did not.