Stroking the Flame - 5. Ben's Disclosure

An unspoken rule about living under my roof is that Ben allows me to cook for him. No hardship, really. Fortunately, he demonstrably relishes my culinary creations so is happy to leave me to my own devices in the kitchen. Well, that is not strictly true. If I am cooking something aromatic, I often sense him come up behind, on the pretence of acting as taster, but mostly to press his hard body into mine, his groin appreciatively nudging my backside. I have also learned the hard way to allow him the dignity of contributing to household food bills and utilities. When he first offered, I declined, made a retrospectively ill-advised remark about him more than making up for anything monetarily by being my bedmate. At the time, I meant the remark in a lighthearted way, surprised when he became darkly irritated, citing the phrases ‘kept man’ and ‘sex object’. Lesson learned, I relented very quickly.

Ben also likes to flex his culinary muscle every so often and today is one of them. Like most of us, he has a few recipes up his sleeve and likes to showcase them on occasion. Tonight, as soon as I enter the house, I smell the pungent aroma of garlic and onions frying. Something lightens in me because since he moved more of his things in on Sunday, he has been quiet and remote. Without asking, I wondered if maybe he had begun to rethink the decision. On my way to him, I arrange my briefcase in the study and remove my overcoat and jacket. Before I enter the kitchen, I make sure to acknowledge my cat, Mr Waldorf, curled up on the sofa but with one beady eye watching me.

“Glass of wine?” he calls out.

“Love one.”

With him still grounded, familiar evidence of his presence about the house is everywhere; the newspaper dismantled page by page on the sofa; bills and other mail fanned out for me on the coffee table, including an intriguingly large envelope with an airmail sticker. Intriguing until the penny drops and I realise the envelope probably contains my mother’s traditionally oversized Christmas card offering, sent from Cyprus where she now lives. Despite being a fan of domesticity, the sight of Ben’s messy presence in the living room warms me. Sorting through other mail on my way to the kitchen, I filter out bills and a couple of cards addressed to Billy, before looking up and noticing something else that has me peering quizzically. Sitting in the armchair is the box from Denny’s house, with documents and books arranged neatly inside.

“Any danger of seeing Billy tonight?” I call out.

I drop Billy’s mail on the lamp table and decide to ask Ben about the box later. When I enter, Ben is in the process of pouring light golden wine, while smirking down at the two wine glasses.

“Nope. Not until late, anyway. Wednesday’s spin and gin night. Spin class followed by an evening at the new gin bar near Charing Cross. I’ll put a plate aside for him.”

When I move over and go to peck him on the cheek, he turns and kisses me full on the lips.

“Want me to set placemats on the counter?”

One of Ben’s idiosyncrasies—probably a childhood discipline—is that he insists on us sitting down together to eat, so we can talk over the day. Billy, Vaughan and I rarely ate together. And the only time Vaughan and I ever dined together at home was when we had guests over for dinner.

“Done already. Go shower, and get changed.”

With the kitchen island empty—where we usually eat—I turn to see the open door and place settings at the large dining room table in the conservatory. Another change is that Ben insists we use the bright space more often, but not usually during the week.

“Are we expecting somebody?”

“No,” he says, his attention back to a pan on the stove. “Just us.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Does there have to be one? Go up and shower.”

I decide to let the cross-examination go and do as he says. Even in our bedroom—our bedroom—there are signs of him everywhere. A book on the bedside cabinet, jeans and tees folded neatly on the pine trunk at the foot of the bed, waiting to be put away. Sometimes I have to give myself a pinch to remind myself that Ben is here, even though he has been living with me since last March, ten months ago. But during that time, despite the blackout weeks when he is away, we have developed a comfortable routine. Not too comfortable, though. I never forget that I considered living with Vaughan as effortless, while Vaughan told me—after we split—that he agreed, and saw our relationship as totally devoid of any shred of effort. Some differences are subtle but significant. I never want to be blindsided that way again.

I return to the table feeling fresh and togged out in tee and sweats to find a large martini glass filled with shrimp, basil, watermelon and Mozzarella cheese. Not really the kind of appetiser I would expect on a cold December morning but the colours are vibrant and the whole effect is mouth-watering. For some reason, he is pulling out all the stops tonight.

“Appetiser, too? Should I have dressed for dinner?”

“Can’t I treat my favourite former murder suspect to something special every so often?”

“You already treat me well. But I appreciate being spoilt once in a while. What other surprises do you have up your sleeve tonight?”

While I sip my wine, he smiles and concentrates on pouring himself another glass.

“First of all, the agent called to confirm our booking. Flights, hotel room and ski school booked in Crans-Montana for the New Year. Flights confirmed for the day after Boxing Day.”

“Excellent. Can we go now?”

“If only,” he says, while clearing away the empty starter glasses. “Secondly, I’ve been looking through the stuff from Denny’s house.”

“I noticed. Anything interesting?”

“Must be the detective in me, but I always wonder why people keep paper-clippings and old letters. I always assume—rightly or wrongly—there must be some deep-seated or secret reason for collecting old junk like that. Probably says a lot about the real person.”

Personally, I am in two minds. To this day, my mother is an automatic hoarder, and we used to have kitchen drawers full of elastic bands, paper clips, plastic bags, flyers, newspaper cuttings, out-of-date discount vouchers, old greeting cards—things she rarely used or reused. Besides, even if the box of papers did mean something to Denny, I would prefer to let him and his memories rest in peace.

“Didn’t you keep your school reports? Or your medical records or college assignments? I even used to keep theatre programmes and entry tickets to concerts when I was young. Nothing sinister about it, just one of those things. Boys at school store all those kinds of memories on their phones. And let’s face it, if Denny’s things were in the attic, he’d probably forgotten they were even there.”

“As I say, it’s probably the detective in me.”

“So what did you find?”

He puts down his wine them, and props his chin onto his hands.

“Did you realise, one of those old books from his bookcase is actually fake; a box?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just a container designed to resemble a book. People have used them for generations, sometimes to store their valuables inside.”

“And?”

“And inside this one, there’s a tied parcel of letters. I only scanned a couple. They date back to the late sixties bundled up with a couple of polaroids. Quite cute actually. They write to each other using initials and nicknames. I think Denny must have had a teenage crush on somebody. Do you want to take a look?”

Again, despite a vague morbid curiosity, I decide against the idea. Maybe this is something Derek or Hugh might want to read. And then another thought comes to me.

“Probably from Archie, his partner. But you know what? Let’s give the letters and the box of other stuff to Juliette Clanniston. Might be a nice angle for the personal story she’s writing.”

Which is what we agree on. By the time we finish a very passable Moroccan style dish of lamb and apricots in rice, a small slice of apple pie with a scoop of salted caramel ice cream—because Ben’s sweet tooth cannot resist dessert—and a bottle of wine, we are both nicely relaxed. Usually I avoid caffeine at the end of a meal but when Ben puts the dishes into the dishwasher and puts on a fresh pot, I decide to join him. When he returns, I give him a recount of some the days’ events. Nothing earth-shattering, and reminding him of the date of this year’s end of term Christmas play, Phil Willoughby’s production of Measure for Measure. Not that I expect Ben to be there, but want to let him know I won’t be home until later that night. I tell him I am not the only teacher to question why Phil chose something so sombre for the holiday season. Ben is unfamiliar with the plot, so I give him a very brief rundown, punctuated by his snorts of amusement. Eventually we sit across from each other in comfortable silence, something I have come to relish.

“Colin,” he says eventually, giving me the unwavering gaze he used when he originally interrogated me in this very house. Despite a full stomach, something curdles. “I need to come clean about something.”

By now I am very familiar with his serious tone, so I bring the cup down from my mouth and give him my full attention, but I know instinctively this will not be good.

“Is this going to explain why you’ve been behaving weirdly since Sunday?”

The tiny smirk in response is more like a quick spasm.

“You remember I told you that Anna came to see me on Sunday. Just after you left.”

“Your ex-wife. I remember. You told me she’s wanted to talk over the divorce.”

Amicably, fortunately, according to Ben. To be honest I half hoped she came to tell him she’s marrying the new man in her life, the one who fathered her child.

“Okay, that wasn’t the whole truth. What I didn’t tell you—because I didn’t know how—is that the kid is my son. What I mean is, I fathered the child. I’m the boy’s father.”

For some crazy reason, Michael Jackson’s song, Billie Jean, pops into my head. But the kid is not my son. Except in this case, it seems it is. I did not see that coming. Should I have? If he did not before, he has my full attention now. I just hope my expression does not betray me.

“How can that be? I thought you separated over a year ago. The child looked like a newborn.”

“He is. Born September this year.”

“Then—how can he be yours?”

Ben pushes a hand through his hair and throws himself back in his seat.

“Last Christmas—before I met you—dad decided not to hold our normal family gathering because mum couldn’t be home, and he wanted to stay at the hospice with her. As you know, my brother and sister have their own families. Chaudhary invited me to Scotland with her bloke and their families, but I’d have felt like a spare part. Anna was home alone and so was I. Her parents had booked a cruise over Christmas. So we agreed to spend the day together, for old time’s sake. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I know, I should never have agreed, but the alternative was depressing. Anyway, we had a good laugh together, ate and drank far too much and then—”

“You gave her an unplanned Christmas present?”

At least he has the decency to look ashen faced.

“If it’s any consolation, I felt like a complete bastard the next morning. I think we both realised it should never have happened. She knew about me, knew my preference. That’s the whole reason we separated. I honestly think she felt as bad as me.”

“You had unprotected sex?”

“No, I used a condom. I always do. You know that. But I remember it broke. These things happen, Colin.”

My blunt question has understandably irritated him. I am aware and supportive of Ben’s obsession with using condoms, largely because his job is dangerous and unpredictable, and brings him into close contact with blood and junkies. Nevertheless, odd thoughts are racing through my head. With a baby in the mix now, where does that leave us? Is this going to change things? Do we need to have that conversation yet?

“And she picked now to tell you? After the baby had already been born?”

“I know. Catholic guilt, she said. She’s already named him; Peter. Sorry I’ve been distracted of late, but what with everything else going on I didn’t want to worry you. I’ve been figuring out how to tell you.”

I study him then and see afresh the genuine worry lines around his eyes. Surely the fact he told me means something. But I still cannot get my head around the fact that she never even thought to tell him about the pregnancy.

“If she’d told you when she first found out, what would you have done?”

“I honestly don’t know, Colin. But we’d have certainly discussed options.”

“Why are you so calm? Aren’t you even the slightest bit angry?”

“Christ, Colin. Two of my closest colleagues have just been murdered on my watch, and one is in a critical condition in hospital. I’m all out of anger. Unless someone finds the bastard that killed them.”

Maybe he is right—pointless anger is something I preach about—but I hate to think Anna might be taking advantage of Ben’s good nature.

“And you’re sure the child is yours?”

Ben sighs deeply and then smiles.

“She suggested I get a paternity test, but—I already know. The kid looks just like me. And you don’t know Anna. She definitely does not sleep around. The kid’s mine.”

Feelings I have never experienced are bubbling inside me now, and I am trying to put a name to them. Anger? Fear? Confusion? Maybe a combination of all three.

“I don’t understand. Why did you marry her in the first place?”

“Colin. I already have enough things in my past that I’m ashamed about. Please don’t ask me why—”

“I want to know. Are you bisexual then?”

“For fuck’s sake, I’ve slept with two women in my life. One in college, and we slept together twice, and the other was Anna.”

“And?”

“And, what?”

”How many times did you sleep with her?”

“Once.”

“Apart from the Christmas surprise.”

“That was the one occasion, Colin. An alcohol-induced moment of stupidity instigated by her. During all the time we were together, we had an arrangement. She knew about me, but we got on really well. Together, we were more like roommates. Our marriage was truly one of convenience.”

“Then why the hell did you go through with it?”

He throws himself back in his seat and scratches at his scalp with both hands.

“To get other people off our backs. When mum was first diagnosed with cancer and started her treatment, every time I went home or to the hospital to see her, she would fret about me, about the fact that I was the only one of her children who hadn’t settled down with someone. ”

“She didn’t know about—”

“No, none of my family members do. At the time, Anna and I were good friends and, honestly, getting married did us both a favour. Her family and friends stopped commenting on her being in her thirties and still single, allowing her to concentrate on her career, and, for my part, my mother could be at peace when she left this world.”

“Is everything you do about keeping other people happy?”

“Until I met you.”

Both of us sit silently for a time, both contemplating what has been said. What I am forgetting is Ben’s selflessness and how lonely life must have been for him, living a lie to put a smile on his mother’s—and probably his father’s—face, by tying the knot with Anna. That first day, when he walked into my school and my life, he tried filling his loneliness with faceless, emotionless encounters. When I spring up from the table, his eyes widen. But I come around his side of the table, straddle his lap, put my arms around his neck and kiss him. When I lean back, he is smiling again.

“Well then, Mr Whitehead. We’re simply going to have to figure out how to manage the situation—”

Right then, Ben’s mobile phone rings and I look down to see the name Chaudhary on the display. I dismount Ben. He rises too, scoops up the phone and heads for the garden door, leaving me with my thoughts. To busy myself, I go about clearing the table and setting the dishwasher going, before perching myself on a kitchen stool facing the garden.

Logic tells me that if Anna did not inform Ben about the child until now, she had no intention of involving him in the child’s upbringing. Maybe now, she realises the need for extra support financially. I know Ben well enough to understand his sense of duty. Perhaps she does, too. If that is her intention, then he will contribute freely. My real worry, if I am going to be completely honest, is Ben himself. We have never talked about children and whether either of us had ever thought about having them. Communicating is not our strong point and I experience our commitment to being together by the little actions and gestures we provide each other. But now I wonder if he will want to insert himself into the child’s life, to be there for babysitting, parties, hobbies, schooling. Will Anna expect Ben to take the child—Peter—from time to time, or have the past few months of having him to herself cemented her resolve to bring up the child alone? And legally, where does Ben stand if he wants to share custody? One thing I know is that I should not push Ben, but give him time to make up his own mind.

When he returns to the kitchen, he stands opposite me, arms folded leaning against the sink, his smile clearly one of relief.

“Longman’s out of danger. Seems he has youth on his side. He’s out of the coma, but not awake yet, and still being kept in the ICU for now.”

My sigh is deep and genuine. “Finally, some good news.”

I notice Ben’s good humour slip momentarily and feel a pang of remorse.

“About the case, I mean,” I clarify, opening my palms on the countertop. “If Longman’s stable, surely there’s a possibility he might regain consciousness and, as long as there’s no brain damage, be able to fill in some gaps?”

“That’s exactly what Chaudhary said. She wants to go and see him tomorrow evening, in an official capacity. I thought maybe you could tag along and then the three of us can grab a bite to eat afterwards. Somewhere near the hospital in South Kensington. I know that means you hanging around the waiting room, but thought it might make a nice change. What do you think?”

Funny, usually Ben prefers not to eat out, and although he has never said as much—and I have never questioned him—I always believed his caution is because of me, being seen out together, and his desire to avoid any speculation in case we are spotted by any of his colleagues. But I suppose Chaudhary being there would provide safety in numbers.

“Sounds good,” I reply, before taking a steely breath. “And, in return, how do you fancy being my plus one for dinner this Saturday evening at Milton Shannonworth’s home? He invited us both.”

Once the events surrounding that dreadful, fateful weekend at Winterbourne’s mansion had settled, I told Ben about the array of personalities I had met at the official function, including General Sir Hamilton Shannonworth and his wife.

“The reason he invited us is because of the favour I’m doing him, persuading Dorothy to open a space for his grandson at our school. He came along Monday. So his wife wants to treat me and my plus one to dinner—Beef Wellington—if you’re interested. I said I’d find out if you’re free.”

“Just us? Not some big dinner party?”

I notice the concerned crinkle between his brows. And just like that, my hackles rise, sensing his caution at being seen in company with me, but I do my best to suppress the irritation.

“No. Just the four of us. As a measure of thanks.”

His silence does nothing to help soften my mood.

“I’d really appreciate your company, Ben. You’ll like Milton. The man’s clearly seen a lot of action during his military career, has some interesting tales to tell.”

“Okay, yes, fine. Count me in.”

Again, I wonder if he is placating me, and decide to provide an olive branch.

“If something comes up,” I offer. “I can always cancel or go alone. There’s no obligation—”

“I said I’d come. Let them know we’ll both be there.”

“I will. Thank you.”

When he levels his gaze with mine, his face softens, and the ghost of a smile touches his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m being an arse again, aren’t I?”

“No, you’re not,” I reply, looking away, searching for the words while smoothing a hand nervously up and down my bare left arm. “You’re just being…understandably cautious.”

When I return my gaze, I notice his eyes following the hand now resting on my shoulder. For a moment, his gaze lingers there before moving slowing to my face and darkening with lust.

“Let’s not bother clearing the rest of the table,” he says, pushing away from the sink.

With a practiced routine, we dance around each other, locking doors, and quickly switching off lights and appliances, before heading up the stairs to our bedroom.