Soul Music: Love Sustained - 10. Observations

The following Sunday morning, Stuart Fletcher dug deep into his bowl of porridge and mixed berries. The resulting spoonful would've needed him to dislocate his jaw before it found its way into his mouth. Irritably, he shook off enough of the heavy load so he could eat what was left. Fuck, porridge revolted him. Without the fruit, it would be like eating sludge. Several blogs recommended it as a good pre-workout breakfast, so he persevered. Perhaps it had something to do with his cooking? He used the spoon to poke at a congealed mass of oatmeal sitting in the middle. Maybe he'd use the instant stuff next time.

It had taken him this long to join the only decent gym in the benighted town. He never expected his new job to take so much energy. That and the move had knocked him sideways. Stuart went back to planning his regimen for that morning. His glutes needed work; and his thighs, and upper arms … In fact, all of him was flabby. No muscles popped when he did the pose – not that he wanted to look like a gym rat. He resigned himself to doing a light, all-over set: there was no point in going mad. Apart from anything else, as manager, his attendance record at work was under even more scrutiny than everyone else's: setting an example.

He was also playing catch-up when it came to reclaiming Tony Marshall as his boyfriend. His scheme – for want of a better word – had stalled when he couldn't find anything useful online about him or the man who was currently masquerading as his boyfriend. Tony's social media was bland beyond belief: nothing deeply personal or earth-shattering, just the occasional holiday snap and inconsequential status update. Stuart wondered whether there was another layer behind it, open only to those who were invited to see it. For fuck's sake! He still didn't even know the name of his supposed rival. The man made no appearance on Tony's few posts. He scowled at the porridge.

It was even more frustrating because a couple of weeks previously, he managed to get a photo of the two men together in the town centre. Just a quickie taken on his phone, but good enough to show the guys at the club during the night just gone. Nobody, but nobody, had anything useful to say about the bearded lump. Except … He took a gulp of black coffee and felt it blazing a trail down his throat. Did someone say they could find out where the Hulk worked? How, he had no idea. Who was it? Most of the evening was now a blur. Sullenly he swallowed more of the digusting porridge. It was now close to being cold. One reason for the fuzziness of his memory was the copious quantity of gin consumed, together with some blow. In those circumstances, it was surprising he found the right image to show them.

Something to follow up when he felt more human. What he really should do – if he had the balls – would be to post the image on his social media. Then he could stand back and wait for the deluge of answers. As if. That email from Tony which purportedly threatened him with a restraining order and a complaint to his employer, was a charade, but … Stuart winced. He couldn't afford any trouble at work – the mortgage for the new place took most of his salary – so he erred on the side of caution. For now. He stopped for a moment to consider why he was so sure Tony Marshall was the one, the only one for him. It was simple: they were compatible in a way most people could only dream of. They would be two halves coming together to form a whole.

The cliched comment made him shake his head. It was the best he could manage in the circumstances. Was he obsessed by Tony? The fact he was able to ask himself the question proved the answer to be 'no'. He'd hooked-up with a number of guys since his enforced spilt with Tony; some even lasted a few nights. None stood the remotest chance of becoming a significant other when compared with his erstwhile boyfriend. Stuart finally cleared his bowl. Then he gulped down the dregs of his cooled coffee. Time to be off: he needed to make a detour before reaching the gym.

Twenty minutes later, Stuart parked his unremarkable hatchback across the street and some way down from Tony's new-build. Fortunately, a couple of properties were for sale, so the neighbours wouldn't be spooked by strange cars hanging around. He was only there to observe; to check out Tony and the other guy – if they were indeed living together. He'd give himself thirty minutes. If nothing occurred, he could always come back another time.

Eight-thirty on a Sunday morning was pretty early – for him anyway. He recalled Tony's inexplicable keeness to get going first thing. As he sat there, a dull throb behind his temples reminded him of the sacrifices he'd made so far to be there. The wretched porridge coated the roof of his mouth like wallpaper paste. He scraped at it with his tongue, helped along with a finger. Giving up, he fished out his phone, intending to catch up on his social media while he waited. A car he didn't recognise drew up outside Tony's house. Stuart stared, his eyes watering. What with the late night and the fact he needed glasses, his eyes weren't in the best of shape.

Two men got out of the estate car: Tony and the Hulk. His stomach lurched. Were they already mostly living somewhere else? More to the point, somewhere he didn't know and which he had little chance of discovering. Of course, Tony still worked at the same place, but if he turned up there or sent more things, he might have trouble on his hands. The gym would have to wait. Stuart settled down to watch and learn, hoping he wouldn't fall asleep instead..

Geoff stood in Tony's bright, warm kitchen, rubbing his eyes. A long, intense rehearsal of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique the day before left him feeling weary. Prior to him meeting Tony, a morning like this would've been spent in bed: not doing anything apart from sleeping. He let out a long breath. He could only hope he'd liven up before that afternoon's rehearsal, followed by the concert. Packing books might seem to be a mindless job, but it still took more energy than he had to offer.

“You sure there's room for all my books?” His boyfriend bustled in with another empty box, this time for personal kitchen items.

Geoff shrugged. “Imagine so. We've hardly gone round with a measuring tape.” Tony gave him a questioning look. “Sorry – I'm feeling rather wiped out. I haven't got my second lease of life yet.” He made a conscious effort to sound more involved. “You haven't got that many books, and I have much more music. We're not aiming to move everything this morning, are we?”

Tony's eyebrows shot up. “God, no. We're just getting things started. I only gave the outline description to the letting agency yesterday. There'll be a lot more paperwork, both with your mother and them. And you've got a busy day. ”

He yawned. “Don't I know it.”

Tony put the box down on the table and moved to give him a hug. “Thanks for coming with me. We both know you're not a morning person.”

“It's fine. Much as I may've wanted to stay in bed, this feels special.”

“Special?”

“Yeah … Of course.” Geoff cocked his head. “Concrete signs of you moving in with me? I'd call that special. Gives me the shivers.”

“In a good way.” His boyfriend loved to tease.

Giving the other man one of his looks, Geoff moved back into the hug for a kiss. He could easily stand there for ever, sheltered in Tony's arms.

After a time, Tony stirred. “Love you, big man. … Right, I'll throw a few things into that box, then we'll get back to yours. Ours.” He smiled. “Just in time for our second breakfast.”

Geoff licked his lips. “Oh, yes. Sausage, bacon, tomatoes, egg, and toast. That's what I'll have. Bliss.”

“That wasn't necessarily what I had in mind.” Tony rolled his eyes. “Suppose it's a concert day though.” He opened another cupboard.

“Yes, it is, and I'm already bloody starving.” He wasn't exaggerating either: his reluctance to get out of bed meant his earlier breakfast consisted of a single bolted slice of toast and a mug of luke-warm, instant coffee.

He heard a loud snigger.

“I'll never have to ask whether it's your stomach or your brain that governs what you do. And I love you for it.”

He frowned. “Not all the time. Just when I'm hungry.”

The raised eyebrow and smirk he got in reply made them both chuckle.

“Anyone would think I'm a glutton.” Geoff surveyed his midriff which, all things considered, didn't look or feel too bad. “Anyway, you still coming this evening?”

Tony fitted his spice rack – less the jars he thought he might need in the meantime – into the box. “Yeah. What's the programme again?”

“Symphonie Fantastique; Les Francs Juges, which is another shorter Berlioz piece; and Beethoven's 'Emperor' concerto. Helen's doing the timp part for the Beethoven, thank god.”

“Leaving you free to gear up for the 'March to the Scaffold'.”

“And the 'Witches' Sabbath', together with all the other madnesses Berlioz comes up with.”

“Thought you said he wrote well for percussion?” Tony closed up the box and put it under the table.

“Oh, he does. But that doesn't stop him from being completely mad at the same time.” Geoff stretched. “Who else in the early nineteenth century would've thought of using a battery of kettledrums to deliver the harmonic underpinning in the Grande Messe des Morts?”

His boyfriend stared at him. “Pardon?”

“Give it a listen some time.” He looked around. “We done?”

“Yeah. For now.”

“Breakfast, here I come!”

Stuart roused himself in time to see his targets leaving Tony's house. Their laughter and joshing was what stirred him. Not that he'd been asleep; no, he was only resting his eyes. The other two men carried a box each which they placed in the boot of their car. To his surprise, they didn't return to the house to get more. Instead, Tony went back to close the door and lock up. Stuart blearily recognised what it meant: his boyfriend wasn't moving out immediately. They were obviously taking their time, and the stuff in the boxes could only be small scale. Also there was no For Sale or To Let sign outside the house either. His lips thinned. How long had he been parked there? An hour, at least. Didn't say much for his investigative credentials that he only noticed it now.

Another thing it meant was that Tony hadn't yet committed himself fully to the Hulk. Good. Fewer things to sort out when he reclaimed his errant boyfriend. Lost in his thoughts, Stuart only registered their leaving when the estate car signalled to take a turn at the end of the street. He shook himself into action: cursing and getting the engine into gear before any more time was lost. He drove to the junction just in time to see the other car turning left at the next roundabout. Shit! At this rate he'd lose them before he'd hardly got started. He accelerated, desperate to keep up. Despite the number of crime thrillers he'd watched over the years, he had limited faith in his capacity to tail the other car. Taking the same left turn, he spotted his quarry in the distance on the thankfully straight road.

A few minutes later, his fears were justified. He watched Tony's car clear a busy, signal-contolled crossroads only to have the lights change to red when he approached. A momentary temptation to run the lights gave way to the reality that he couldn't afford any more penalty points on his driving licence. He slammed the brakes on. A horn blast from the car behind made him itch to give the old cow the finger. His younger self would've done so without fear, but in the real world, he risked getting into trouble. Not from the rude gesture particularly; more, he knew his alcohol and/or drug levels were still high enough to warrant police interest.

Instead, he sat fuming while the other car got lost in the town centre traffic. He might as well give it up as a bad job. At least he would have other opportunities. He grimaced: that settled what he'd be doing the following Sunday. As the lights changed, Stuart indicated left to return home.

Geoff parked his car as close to the stage entrance as he could. There was a lot of kit to carry in and their usual Victorian-era venue wasn't the easiest place to navigate. A burst of warmth reddened his cheeks as he recalled that first, flustered encounter with Tony. A chance event which brought so much happiness and love into his life. Before he could wallow in the memories, a sharp tapping on the car window made him jump.

He opened it slightly.

Helen's face peered in at him. “You given up answering your phone all of a sudden? And texts too, for that matter.”

“Shit. Sorry, Hel. My phone's died.” That explained his friend's annoyance. He frowned. “Surely I said something yesterday?”

“Err … no. Otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

He got out of the car. Helen's phone bleeped. She immediately activated the handset and studied whatever was on the screen.

Geoff cursed himself for an idiot. “Ah … Very true. My mind's been on other things recently.” He grimaced apologetically. “Something happened?”

“Yeah. Phil's only gone and got himself food poisoning overnight. Probably from that vile Chinese takeaway he insists on using.” She shook her head. “Men.”

He blinked. “Excuse me. I cook; and so does Tony. In fact you know he's a damn good cook.”

He got a smile back before she continued. “I've spent all bloody morning trying to find a replacement. Once I'd given up hope of speaking to you, of course.”

Geoff flushed. Fixing was his responsibility usually. “Got anyone?”

“Not 'til now. That was Jace Edwards. Fortunately, he's not playing elsewhere. He'll be here in forty minutes or thereabouts; he's got to travel twenty miles to get here.”

“Phew … I'd better offer him something for expenses then. Thanks a lot, Hel.” He went round to open the boot. “We're short-handed as it is for the Berlioz.”

Helen followed him. “Yeah. … Anyway, what's been occupying your mind? Oh, of course: your mother, I presume? I never did get round to paying her a visit.”

For which Geoff was truly grateful, though he had enough sense not to say so. “Err … Well, she's agreed to Tony's rental proposition.”

His friend was rendered speechless for a second. “She never.”

“Hmm.” He nodded.

“Bloody hell!” She gave him a quick hug. “Bet you didn't see that coming either.”

“Tony thought it was more likely after the accident, but even he was surprised when the letter arrived.”

“Flabbergasted would be my word. Right ...” Helen's tone of voice became brisk. “Let's get this stuff into the hall and set up before the brass come over to boss us about. You can tell me the rest at half-time.”

“You can wait that long?” Helen's appetite for news about her friends was well-known.

“Yes, I can.” She glared at him. “But if we weren't nearly late for the rehearsal, I'd have it out of you now.”

“Late?” Geoff grabbed his phone in a panic.

“We will be if we hang about here for much longer.”

They started unloading Geoff's car, unconsciously dividing the work between them like they'd done so many times before.

In the pub afterwards, Helen finally relaxed with a large gin and tonic. Geoff was giving her a lift back so she didn't have to watch her alcohol intake too closely. She blew out a long breath. God … she was glad that was over. That sodding bell part in the Berlioz. Her lip curled. Someone else could do it the next time. She'd chosen this bar as one the orchestra didn't normally patronise and the Sunday crowd was older and less raucous than on Saturdays.

Geoff tapped her on the shoulder. “We're sitting over there.” He pointed. “Want to join us?”

“OK. I didn't want to interrupt the exchange of sweet nothings.”

Geoff's eyes narrowed. “You won't be.” He collected an orange juice and a glass of red wine from the bar.

“No? Well, I suppose you've got all the time in the world, now you're officially living together.”

Her friend blushed and turned to smile at his boyfriend. Tony waved them over.

Helen touched Geoff's elbow. “Careful.” A quick glance around assured her they weren't attracting any attention. “As you're both so insistent … Yes, I'll grace you with my company.”

“Thanks for …”

“I look out for my mates.”

Once they settled down at their corner table, the inevitable post-mortem started between her and Geoff. They disposed of the first half's pieces in no time. Then they got down to the serious stuff.

Before they got going, Tony chipped in. “Great concert, I thought. Thoroughly enjoyed it.”

Helen smiled. “Thanks, Tony.” It was his first time at one of their dissections. She glared at Geoff. “However, you weren't up there, trying to play those wretched tubular bells.”

Geoff smirked at her. “Solo, off-stage, and against everyone else. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Everything! As you damn well know.”

He sniggered. “It sounded OK. A little shaky in places, perhaps?”

“You're lucky I came in: not being able to see the bloody conductor's a disaster waiting to happen.”

His eyes widened. “Really? Thought we'd checked that in the rehearsal.”

Tony's eyes flicked between the two of them as the conversation ricocheted back and forth.

She took another sip of her G&T. “Hnh … We did; then he moves the effing podium. Didn't think to say, did he? So when I nipped backstage, I couldn't see the beat.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. Ah, indeed. Surprised you couldn't hear me swearing.”

Geoff rolled his eyes. “The story of a percussionist's life. … Never mind – you survived.”

“I still think it sounded great.” Tony sounded faintly bemused.

They both laughed. Helen touched his arm. “Thanks, again. It's only us griping. Don't you do something similar after your gigs?”

He shrugged. “Occasionally. Not in so much detail, certainly.”

She and Geoff continued to dissect their performance for several more minutes.

After it went on for a while, Tony decided a change of topic was called for: he felt somewhat excluded with all the technical talk of the percussionists' world.

When a short gap appeared in others' conversation, he dived in. “Shall we move on to something else?”

They both nodded; Geoff was trying to suppress a grin. Doubtless he recognised the hint of impatience, or perhaps, calling a meeting to order. Tony smiled wryly. Did he really use it so often?

He turned. “Helen, why don't you tell us more about this guy who's moved into your block.”

“Oh … Wes? Yeah, he's a bit older than either of you. 'bout late thirties? Not sure what he does for a living. …”

He kept half an eye on Geoff to see if he was OK while Helen chattered along. They had their promised talk about Geoff's insecurities the previous morning. Of course, there wasn't a miraculous cure. It was more about his boyfriend voicing his concerns about them meeting other gay men in a social setting. In turn, he acknowledged the existence of the concerns and offered as much support as he could. It was a work in progress.

“Is he local?”

“No. He's from down south somewhere.”

Geoff's eyebrow went up. “That leaves quite a wide area.”

Helen shrugged. “It'll give you something to talk about when you meet him.”

“When? Sounds as though you already booked the restaurant, Helen.” Tony cocked his head – he wasn't too keen someone else's assumptions. “And you're sure Wes is gay?”

“He hasn't said so, but it's pretty obvious.”

He exchanged a glance with Geoff. Assumptions again. And some stereotyping for good measure.

“D'you know he's looking for friends?” While not seeking a get-out as such, Tony wanted something definite to go on. “Some people aren't that bothered. We don't want to go in mob-handed only to discover he's fine as he is.”

“Oh, yeah.” Helen sounded faintly relieved. “He stopped me on the stairs one time and asked if the block had any social activities. … So, what d'you think? Something short. Maybe both of you dropping by for a coffee before going on to your place, Tony. That'd be a perfect excuse to leave whenever.”

He and Geoff had another short, silent exchange before he made his mind up. “OK. Let's make it sometime next week. We'll let you know.”

“Great. Thanks, both.” Helen stood up. “Anybody for another round?”