Never Too Late To Believe - 17. Reasons

Cardboard boxes lay scattered throughout the house – full, empty, and every state in between. Emily Standish sighed. It represented progress of sorts. Progress which would have to accelerate in pace and scope if they were going to be ready for the movers. She surveyed what could be seen of the ground floor from the foot of the stairs. The boxes resembled Brobdingnagian demerara sugar cubes tossed away without thought and left to lie where they landed.

She climbed the stairs in search of Tommy. Having surfaced briefly for breakfast, her son had since vanished. If he'd gone back to bed, it was high time he helped out with the packing instead. She inched past one box which partially blocked the first floor landing. A wryly exasperated peer inside revealed a mess of books, winter clothes, and a tennis racquet which had seen better days. What she recognised as Tommy's second-best headphones lay perched on top. Another sigh.

“Tommy!”

After a moment, the young man's head poked around the door to his bedroom. He yawned. “Yeah?”

Emily noted how sun-bleached his tousled hair was. It contrasted strongly with tanned features below. So much for the sun safety discussion before he'd set off for his zoology field trip to Ecuador. “Don't leave stuff in the way, please.” She pointed to the box.

“Sorry.” Another deeper yawn followed.

“And were you listening at breakfast?”

Her son blinked slowly. “To?”

“What we agreed to write on each box – contents and where it's going mainly.”

“Mum!” An expression of pained disbelief followed. “I've been home, like, thirty-six hours. I barely know what day it is.”

A smile got the better of her lurking irritation. Long-haul flights left her out of sorts for days afterwards. Tommy evidently was no different.

“And I keep expecting our academic supervisor to materialise in front of me, demanding my latest observation data. Jeez, she's scary.”

Zoology trips to exotic places might sound an excuse for a holiday, but Emily guessed they were hard work undertaken in less than optimal conditions. “She certainly comes across as demanding.”

He shrugged slightly. “We'd have achieved way less if she hadn't been leader.”

“Well, now that's my job.” Her phone rang. She peered at the unknown number for a moment before dismissing the call. “I'm trying to keep your father at a distance so the two of us stand some chance of getting on top of this wretched logistical nightmare.”

“Maybe I take after him?”

They both laughed.

“Thanks for coming straight back home, darling. These next few days are going to be mad.”

The young man ran one hand through his hair and stretched. “So, what's the plan for today?”

“If we can get all the bedrooms done – you know, the loose stuff – that would be wonderful.”

“Loose stuff?”

“Tommy.” She frowned. “What d'you think?”

He shrugged.

Their exchange continued, accompanied by much pointing, hand waving, and more laughter.

Her parting comments were interrupted by the brisk, no-nonsense sound of her phone again. This time, she didn't bother to look at the screen, allowing voicemail to answer instead. “OK?”

Tommy slipped on an ancient pair of green Crocs. Emily took that as a prelude to serious work.

“Guess so.”

A chime sounded, announcing the arrival of a text. Faintly annoyed, she stared at the notification. Was it the same number as the dismissed calls?

Her son smirked. “Someone's keen to get in touch.”

“Hmm. It's not any of the builders or the removal company.” She shrugged. “Suppose I'd better check. Move that box before you do anything else, darling. I'll be back shortly.”

“'K, Mum.”

Mind still full necessary preparations, Emily wandered into the master bedroom with its heaps of bedding, shoes, and clothes awaiting their turn. The whole house represented a production line leading inexorably to moving day.

She perched on the side of the bed, next to the double window, and prodded her phone. It displayed the message. She skimmed through it before returning to the start and re-reading with closer attention.

So sorry not to have made contact before. It's been one thing after another, including losing my phone. This is my number now. Could you spare a minute or two to talk? I owe you an explanation for missing our picnic, if nothing else. F

Felicity? Emily frowned. With the clamour and bustle of their move, she'd pretty much forgotten about the other woman. Her head tilted. Forgotten wasn't quite the right word. Felicity, and her possible domestic difficulties, were unconnected with the current, all-consuming work and so, not sufficiently important to register.

She sat on the bed, holding the phone, and sifted through her feelings. Irritation and some anger lingered from the aborted picnic. They were joined by disbelief. Two weeks to make some semblance of an apology? And the other woman hadn't acknowledged the message she'd left the following day.

A deep, indrawn breath released slowly. House preparations had to come first. Emily heard Tommy drag a box along the landing carpet, She suppressed the urge to yell at him to lift it up instead. Felicity would have to make do with a text. If a satisfactory reply appeared swiftly, then maybe they could talk later.

One finger poked and swiped out a message.

Can't talk now – organising move to new house. How about later? 9ish? E

After waiting a couple of minutes for a reply that didn't materialise, Emily stood up, put the phone in her pocket, and got back to the job in hand. It was only as lunchtime approached that she heard the message chime again. She looked.

10.30 would be better. Quieter. Thanks. F

After a Wednesday spent in Hereford keeping appointments and generally chasing his own tail, Andy relaxed in the passenger seat of Adam's Jaguar. New, all-electric, and ridiculously shiny, the car was only a week old.

“Enjoying the new toy?” He turned, a grin growing.

Adam rarely splashed serious money around, but changing his vehicle whenever the fancy took him was an exception. Not that the expense came from their joint account – that still bore the scars from their visit to the tailor's.

“Jealous?” Adam, suit jacket off and sleeves rolled up, raised one eyebrow.

“Nope.” There'd been times at the start of their relationship when the knowledge of Adam's private income had rankled; made him unsure. That was long past. “For fuck's sake. Can you see me driving along some potholed, muddy track with a load of gear in this beauty?”

Laughter followed. “Only if your definition of 'a load' comprised two or three secateurs.”

“That many?”

The sleek coupe was luxurious, but just then, hardly being put through its paces. Hereford's version of rush hour meant they were inching along nose to tail, leading up to a notoriously bad junction.

“And anyway, the suspension'd last two seconds.”

Adam let out a snort of disgust. He frowned. “Did I tell you a pothole nearly wrecked my front cycle wheel the other day?”

“Saturday? Don't think I noticed anything when you got back.”

“Missed it by a hair.”

“Oh, for the hidden joys of cycling.” Andy stretched out his legs. “Had some good news earlier.”

“Hmm?”

“My boss–”

“And that's not me?”

The sly, possessive side-glance that accompanied the question sent a tingle up Andy's spine. “Dream on, tiger!” A low, dirty chuckle followed which added to Andy's awareness of certain parts of himself. He swallowed. “Claire Watson's my boss, as if you didn't know. Anyway, she's got her proposal for a foodbank approved. The premises are ready to go.”

Adam took his eyes off the stationary traffic for a moment to register his surprise. “I thought someone else was going to take it on?”

“She's still seeking the right candidate. Got fed up waiting, is my guess.”

“Sounds like her.”

“Yeah.” There was a pause. Andy frowned slightly. “She tried again to get me involved.”

“Really?” Another head turn.

“I said 'no'.” He re-lived snatches of Claire's passionate advocacy. It had been difficult. He had no regrets though. “It doesn't have to be me getting market gardeners on board. Anyone can run with the idea of including more fresh stuff.”

“I'm relieved.” The sly look was back, with added heat. “Can't have you too tired to perform your husbandly duties.”

“What?!” Andy choked on air. “Dear god. Are we back in some alternative fucking 1950s?”

One eyebrow lifted. “Hope not. The food back then must've been vile.”

“And washing machines were a luxury.”

“Truthfully, you, we, have a busy few months ahead of us.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. I used our nuptials as a convenient excuse to hide behind.”

“Good. I imagine Claire Watson doesn't enjoy people refusing to do what she wants. I hope the foodbank's a success nevertheless. It's certainly needed.”

“Hmm… she also wondered whether Eric wanted to help out in some way.”

The traffic lights finally allowed them to traverse the junction and join a stream of vehicles that was at least moving steadily through Hereford's suburbs.

“That's up to him. Can't really imagine him in a front-facing role.”

Andy smiled ruefully. “No. And he's been pretty busy recently.”

Beside him, Adam let out a pensive breath. “Has Eric said anything more about Monday evening?”

He blinked. “Such as?”

“Well, what we watched together made quite an impression on him. I wondered whether he'd volunteered anything more concerning the… lewdness he found in the writing.”

Both eyebrows shot up. “I only called in briefly yesterday after the meeting with Claire. Considering Eric rarely talks about any feelings, I can't imagine him opening up further on sex things. You saw him on Monday. God, even I find it excruciating any time I attend a sexual health appointment, and that's in a clinical setting. It's not my job to push him on anything personal in that way. For him to even offer that much was pretty startling.” Andy smiled to himself. “And it shows the degree to which he trusts us.”

“Hmm.” Adam wove the car past a bus off-loading passengers, stopped at a pedestrian crossing, and then contrived to overtake two cyclists. The road ahead appeared clearer. “I just can't get my head around how unaware – or apparently unaware – he is when it comes to sex.”

Andy shrugged. “Repressed? Uninterested? Embarrassed. Whatever. I don't know. No way am I going to ask him.”

“I understand. We all have urges though. I suppose I'm curious how a gay man living out here in hugely different times got to satisfy them.”

“Or not.” Agreement from the other man came in the form of a slight grimace. Andy sat up. “We need to be careful. Eric isn't a queer social history subject study or someone meriting generalised pity. I know virtually nothing about his family or upbringing and only a little more about his time at school. For all we know, they could've determined his sexual attitudes. It's his story to tell, if and when it suits him.”

A rueful grin passed over Adam's face. “You're right. Maybe I should attend that empathy course you did a while back. It wouldn't be pity I'd feel. More, sadness and anger that–” He paused. “That a shy, uninformed individual like Eric didn't live at a time when it's OK to ask, to discover yourself.”

Andy turned to look out the window at the passing fields with their grazing cattle. “Occasionally, I wonder if Eric's what we'd nowadays call ace.”

“What?”

“Ace. Or heading that way.”

Adam took his eyes off the road for a second. “Yes, and what's ace?”

“Asexual.” He returned the look. “It's a pretty common term for someone who's generally not that sexually turned on.”

“Fuck – sounds as though I should actually read the next wretched e-letter Baz sends instead of consigning it to the recycling.”

A non-binary acquaintance of theirs from London produced a regular publication which might've contained useful, even inspiring information except the earnest, preachy, jargon-laden tone had all the attraction of chewing cardboard.

Adam's sly grin was back. “Not sexually turned-on? You've got nothing to worry about there.”

Andy blushed. It didn't take much. Witness their present conversation. He gulped. “It works both ways.”

The answering growl only stoked his body's gathering heat.

Suddenly the Jaguar leapt forward, although the subdued purrs from its battery-operated engine didn't change. Adam took a firmer grasp of the steering wheel. “Time to put this beauty through its paces. I need to get you home.”

Andy stood in the shower, letting warm water cascade down his back. Still blissed out, his mind wandered, only occasionally acknowledging the deep-seated, pleasurable ache in his arse. Adam had been keen. He smirked. As had he. One hand was reaching for more of the bodywash when sounds of Adam's voice reached him intermittently from the bedroom.

Reluctantly turning the shower off, Andy grabbed a towel, applied it to his face, then leaned in the direction of the door. “What?” He wasn't even sure Adam was talking to him. “That meant for me?”

The bathroom door opened. Dressed in a form-fitting pair of boxer briefs, his hair tousled, Adam looked good enough to eat. Again. His fiancé smiled. “Sorry. Yeah. Herefordshire Life's publishing our article on Friday.”

“This Friday?”

“Yeah.”

Making more extensive use of the towel, Andy emerged. “That's bloody quick.” He pulled on some loose-fitting shorts.

A shrug. “Maybe something else has fallen through.”

“You going to tell your mum?”

“Good point. I'll phone now. What's for supper?”

Andy blinked. “Err… something quick and easy, I imagine.”

A chortle followed which only increased his post-shower glow.

“There's a couple of salmon fillets in the fridge.”

He swallowed a sigh of relief. “Sounds perfect. Stir-fry veg or salad?”

“Let's have Asian.”

Sex daze fading only slowly, Andy went through well-practised motions in the kitchen – preparing veg, finding soy sauce, chillies, and ginger, and putting the pan on to heat. Some part of him noted the absence of conversation, one-sided, of course, coming from the lounge.

He frowned, though it wasn't unknown for Felicity to be out on a social engagement.

Adam strode in, frustration clear on his face. “Have you spoken with Ma recently?”

“Ehm.” His eyes widened. “Now you mention it, no. I've been busy.”

“And we've dealt with the wedding arrangements.” Adam stared at his phone. “Her number's coming up disconnected.”

“What – phone turned off, you mean?”

“No. As in, this number doesn't exist.”

Andy turned back to the pan briefly, turning the heat down, glad he hadn't put the food on to cook. “Maybe the phone's lost or stolen?” A small knot formed in his guts. He didn't like to think of other possible reasons.

“In which case, why hasn't she let us know the new number?”

“It's only been a day or two?” He gave a half shrug. “I don't know. You could phone the landline.”

“And risk getting him? Fuck that.” Adam scowled.

He hesitated. “What's your father's reaction likely to be to the article?” His own parents were looking forward to it with interest. Something that was extremely unlikely in Oliver's case.

Adam's lips thinned to a straight line and his nostrils flared. “I don't give a flying fuck what he thinks and neither should you.”

His own eyes widened. “He might make trouble–”

“Just let him try.”

Andy observed the faint redness across the other man's cheekbones – a display of anger that rarely showed itself. He decided to back off, though far from convinced Adam's father didn't represent a threat of some kind. It made getting Felicity's new number more urgent. He reached over to the kitchen table and retrieved his own phone. “I had a couple of missed calls earlier. Dismissed them as wrong numbers.” He swiped and prodded the screen.

Adam followed suit. “What number?” He peered. “Looks as though the odd call escaped me as well.”

“Err… here it is. Whoever it was tried twice in quick succession.” He showed the screen to the other man. “Same number?”

“Yeah! Excellent. Assuming that's who it is, of course.”

“Could be coincidence. Easy way to settle it.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “I can take a hint.”

He retreated back into the lounge while Andy resumed cooking. He'd only got as far as throwing all the ingredients into the frying pan when Adam returned.

“No luck. Generic voicemail message.”

“Leave anything?”

“No. We'd better both pay more attention tomorrow. She'll try again.”

Andy thought about saying they could take it in turns to phone Adam's mother, if it was her, but decided not to. “We could text.”

“Yeah.” One eyebrow rose. “I'd prefer to talk first.”

He smirked. “No sending love and kisses to a wedding sales person?”

Adam winced. “Food ready?”

“Right on cue.”

Stretched out on the sofa in gathering darkness, Emily lazily sipped red wine. God, she'd ache in the morning. Good humoured, male laughter came from the kitchen where the two men in her life were washing up. Nigel was turning out to be surprisingly domesticated, albeit with a narrow skill set. She could imagine her husband at the sink but not bent over a chopping board, prepping veg. Who cared? Every little bit of domestic slog undertaken by someone else meant she had additional energy for getting the move done. Or so she had to hope.

She tried to ignore the siren call of her bed. If she could only get the conversation with Felicity out of the way, sleep would be best. It wasn't time yet. Wearily, Emily turned on the closest lamp. Why couldn't the wretched house warming invitations send themselves? There was no point in revisiting their decision – really, Nigel's decision – to send physical invites. Her lips twitched. Father and son had exchanged frank, diametrically-opposed views on the subject. Nigel, as was his way, granted some minor concessions. Tommy might ask his friends any way he chose. The invitations were recycled and recyclable in their turn.

And this was another chore that welcomed company. She sat up and raised her voice. “When you're both finished, there's a huge pile of envelopes here that need address labels.”

Their replies hardly exuded enthusiasm. Emily smiled fondly. Everyone was tired.

The venerable, freestanding clock in the hallway struck ten. Her reluctant helpers had dispersed, job done. Emily stirred, reaching for her phone. Irritation, concern, puzzlement, and general tiredness didn't auger well for a productive conversation with the other woman. She rubbed her eyes, took a deep breath and hit the shortcut.

Hello? The greeting was close to a whisper.

Instinctively, Emily dialled down her usual brisk tone. “Hi, Felicity. Emily Standish here. It's been a while.”

Yes, it has. Sorry, Emily. My fault entirely.

“Oh?” It felt too early to offer sympathy.

As I said in my text, it's been one thing after another. I'm so sorry to have missed our picnic.

A keen ear told Emily that came across as genuine. “I'm sure we would've had a great time.”

Yes. A hesitation. My husband insisted I kept him company instead. There was a brief sound, apologetic in nature. He can be quite… demanding. Sometimes it's easier all round to fit in with his plans.

She wondered what that decoded to in real life. “Plans change. I would have appreciated some notice.” A hint of annoyance had crept in.

You're right. Felicity cleared her throat. There wasn't the opportunity to let you know, I'm afraid.

Emily felt her face signalling disbelief.

And then my phone vanished. I'm not sure what happened. Maybe it fell out of my pocket or it was stolen? Anyway–

The other woman's voice faded into the background as Emily examined the opening sentences, replaying them in her head. They sounded rehearsed, glib. A cover for something else? Or maybe Felicity had simply got her excuses lined up, ready for what might be a difficult encounter.

There was a pause. Emily launched the most obvious of her many questions into the silence. “Couldn't you have borrowed your husband's phone?”

A short burst of nervous laughter followed. Oliver never lets anyone else use his phone. Or anywhere near it. He insists on buying the latest model and spends hours setting it up. I'm not sure how much he actually uses or understands the phone though.

More decoding required. Emily wondered if she should've recorded the encounter to play it back to Nigel. It was wishful thinking of course. “He could've sent a text on your behalf?”

There was a pause she labelled as agitated. The other woman's breathing sped up.

Oliver and I have our own friends. We prefer to keep them… separate from each other. And he doesn't like too much of my time being taken up by other people.

Emily realised she was pushing too hard. Any suspicions she held that the replies were a front would have to voiced elsewhere. “Would you like to consider a rerun of the picnic?”

That would be lovely. Things are a little busy here presently. Shall we think about a couple of weeks time?

“Why not. I'll be glad to escape the aftermath of our move.”

Good. I'll be in touch closer to the time.

Call over, Emily spent a couple of minutes fixing Felicity's exact words in her mind. Then she poured herself another glass of wine and lost herself in thought.