Never Too Late To Believe - 20. Evening Out

Eric stared at the bathroom mirror, vainly twisting his body for a better view. The expensive blue of his fancy new jacket mocked him; his equally new, pristine white shirt only emphasised the rough, weather-beaten state of his skin. And his cack-handed shaving. Rob had done a great job with the trousers. The old man stilled, peering down at his feet. All that meant was his shoes, the only decent shoes he possessed, were visible in their jarring, mid-brown glory. It was best not to think about his socks.

Why had he accepted Emily Standish's invitation? His guts tensed. He hadn't been able to settle to anything for the entire day. Eric gritted his teeth. If it had only been him, he'd have given up hours ago. Thoughts of a peaceful, anonymous tea spent in front of the telly plagued him. But Rob, his guest, would be on the way, plus Eric needed to apologise to Andy. Nerves, together with a poor night's sleep had led to him snapping at the young man during an earlier phone call. They'd parted without him having the sense to apologise.

Was this what having a social life entailed? How did people navigate all the pitfalls? With an exasperated sigh, Eric turned away from the mirror. He'd go, show his face for the shortest time possible, then escape. Rob would be fine without him. With a guilty lurch, he remembered Emily's personal invitation to tour the garden. OK – he'd spend the necessary time there, away from other guests. And Rob? A growl emerged from the back of Eric's throat. Even he knew it was unacceptable to be so rude.

Some small voice of sanity in the back of his head asked why he was getting into such a state. Two hours out of one day wasn't much to get through. He'd know Rob, and the lads, and Emily. His stomach gurgled.

“There'd better be food.” Eric scowled. One question he hadn't asked Rob or Andy. It was too late to eat anything before leaving. A large sausage roll accompanied by cherry tomatoes, designed to be a substantial lunch, had long since vanished to feed his nervous energy.

He twitched at the thought of juggling finger food while he held a filled glass and attempted to make conversation. Chances of showing himself to be a fool were high.

Eric scrubbed at both eyes with the flat of a finger before turning around, leaving the bathroom, and stumping downstairs.

From just inside the doorway, Tommy Standish surveyed the dining room. His parents certainly knew how to put on a culinary show. He frowned. Six o'clock was only half an hour away. Stupid time for a house-warming party to commence, but at least that meant his parents felt obliged to supply proper food. Most people had to be coming direct from work.

Opposite him, on their old, wooden dining table, the caterers had laid out a truly luscious display. He itched to sample a vegetable samosa, followed maybe by one of the smoked salmon blinis. Or… With difficulty, Tommy wrenched his gaze away, turning instead to the drinks table to his left.

The array of bottles was startling. He sniggered. Guests would be forgiven for thinking they'd bought up half the local supermarket's wine stock. Most of it was single variety apple juice – a drink given as much respect as wine thereabouts, as he'd quickly learnt. His eyes rolled as he recalled one of several pushy sales guys straining to make him sample each variety. The guy had failed.

“Ooh!” Close by, a woman's voice made him jump. “This looks really tasty.”

Their current houseguest, Felicity Partington, inched past to stare approvingly at the spread. “The caterers have excelled themselves.”

“Dunno why this thing has to start so early.”

She gave a slight shrug. “Your mum's keen to show people the garden while it's still light, I think. Maybe there'll be time for a game of croquet on the old tennis lawn?”

“Croquet?”

“It's a good game. Don't knock it until you've tried it.”

Tommy's disbelief seemed to radiate out of him.

Felicity snorted. “Drag your friends out – they'll love it, I'm sure.”

“Friends?” He moved closer to the food. “My mates have all got better places to be. Bastards.” He reached out for a samosa.

His companion cleared her throat. Tommy turned.

“I have a dispensation.” She carried an empty plate in one hand. “As I understand it, no-one else does.”

He sighed and withdrew. Felicity's plate was part of their everyday crockery, not one of the brightly-coloured, melamine specimens supplied by the caterers. His eyebrows lifted.

Their houseguest returned a familiar sad smile. He knew the bare outline of what had driven the woman from her own familiar surroundings.

“Don't worry – I won't be a spectre at the feast.” Her smile brightened. “This food's far too good to miss.”

“You aren't going to be around?”

“It's too risky. Friends of friends, acquaintances, gossip-mongers – any guest could inadvertently spill the beans to my husband. Neither I nor your parents would want that. Besides–” She gave a half shrug. “Social engagements like this stir up unhappy memories.”

There were fifteen minutes to go. Tommy shifted from one foot to another. “Better get into car park attendant mode.”

A mischievous grin appeared briefly on Felicity's face. “Making you work for your supper. I approve.”

“Assuming there's anything left by the time I get to it.”

“There'll be plenty.” With a faint chuckle, Felicity set to, heaping her plate with deliciousness.

Tommy looked on for a moment before turning to leave.

Feeling ridiculous in his new clothes, Eric hesitated at the open gates to the large, three-storey house. Golden September light made the red brickwork glow. Part of him yearned to turn on his heel and go straight back over the road. The feeling tugged at him; he might have succumbed if he hadn't been spotted.

“Eric!” Emily Standish approached, a broad smile lighting her face. She appeared effortlessly at ease in a floral summer dress and tiny matching cardigan. “How lovely to see you. Do come in.”

Something about the clothes reeked of money. Eric wasn't sure if it was their fit, or the materials' rich, vibrant colours. A scowl threatened. Instead, he forced a smile and closed the distance between them. “Thank you for inviting me.” He paused. “My guest hasn't arrived yet.”

“That's fine. It's not as if we're inspecting everyone's invitations. I'll make sure to seek you out once they arrive. Who's your guest?”

“Rob Bairstow – an old workmate of mine.” Eric didn't know what impelled him to explain Rob's relationship.

“Excellent. I trust you and Rob have a lovely time.” She turned away slightly. “You're our first arrival, Eric. Let me help you to a drink and I'll show you the buffet at the same time.” With one arm outstretched, she accompanied Eric inside. “Between you and me, some of the other guests won't stint themselves.” A conspiratorial smile followed. “So it's best to get in first. Once Andy appears, we'll walk round the garden while it's still light.”

Eric didn't reply. Instead, he stood for a few seconds in the entrance hall, taking in its size and luxurious good taste. The walls' flat muted pink didn't come from any DIY store's budget paint range. He recalled similar muddy colours during his working life on the rare occasions he was summoned indoors. Looking up, the sight of white ceiling mouldings, though less ostentatious, provoked the same grumbling memories. Christmas had been the only time he'd been allowed to use anything other than the servant's entrance.

The lads' own Edwardian detached house appeared suburban by comparison. Homely. He guessed they spent their money more on gadgets and internet things.

At Emily's urging, he allowed himself to be shown through to the dining room. Food, opulent and unfamiliar, lay spread out on an old, highly-polished dining table. It, and a pair of matching cabinets set against the far end wall, were most likely antiques. Eric inwardly rolled his eyes. What on Earth was he doing there?

“What can I get you to drink, Eric?”

The bright, pleasant-sounding enquiry startled the old man out of his thoughts. He turned. A quick glance revealed a horde of bottles huddled together. None of them suggested beer. “Err…” A glass of ale might've relaxed him. Or increased the chances of making a fool of himself.

“There's a very decent Rioja, and a Sauvignon blanc my husband swears by.”

Was that wine? Eric wished Andy stood beside him, whispering explanations and encouragement. He decided against any alcohol. “Apple juice?”

“Or cider?”

“Juice.” He recalled being told some of the local cider had a real kick to it.

She scanned the forest of bottles. “There's plenty. So many varieties. Perhaps it'd be better to ask whether you prefer your juice sharp, sweet, or somewhere in between.”

“Sharp, thanks.” It was closest to his sour, disillusioned mood. As Eric accepted the glass, another man hovered in the doorway.

“Em?”

Emily Standish moved from behind the table. “Eric – meet my husband, Nigel. Darling, this is one of our neighbours, Eric Whitehouse. He'll be joining Andy Harper and I on a tour round the garden later.”

Urbane, tall, and with a full head of well-barbered, greying hair, the stranger held out his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Eric. You did well to get here before the hordes descend.”

Without thinking, Eric held out the hand which clutched his full glass. He flushed, hastily transferred the drink to his other hand and stuttered out a greeting.

After giving him a smile, Nigel Standish turned back to his wife. “The other guests are arriving. We'd better get into position.”

To greet them, Eric supposed.

“Eric, do excuse us.” Emily sounded genuinely apologetic. “The buffet table is temporarily all yours.”

After his hosts departed, Eric gazed at the almost perfect display. He grabbed a plate, gingerly balanced his drink on an unoccupied patch of table, then started reading labels. If nothing else came of the damned evening, he would at least be fed.

A steady trickle of guests flowed through the open gates. Those who arrived on foot or in a taxi were directed to Tommy's parents who stood just inside the front door. Cars were his responsibility. The gravel area in front of the house plus the short driveway ought to take six or seven vehicles. Eight was theoretically possible. Tommy had spent a fascinating and infuriating hour or so on his laptop working out the possible permutations. Latecomers would have to park on the kerb.

The young man leant against a gatepost, moodily imagining guests cooing with delight at the food in the dining room. He'd be lucky if a single miniature Scotch quail's egg remained. Felicity's earlier assurance lacked any hold on reality. Tommy shrugged. He could always order in a pizza.

The lurking sense of disgruntlement vanished when a car's sleek, smooth, gleaming snout appeared in the turning.

He stared. “Shit! That's gotta be the new all-electric Jag.” His stomach fluttered. “Wow.” He observed the car minutely as it slowly drew in.

Most of his zoology mates took the piss without mercy. In their eyes, a guy who cared for the planet and all its inhabitants shouldn't also be a car freak.

A horn sounded. Tommy jerked upright. The guy driving looked at him expectantly. His passenger appeared amused before leaning over to say something. A short conversation followed. The passenger then sprang athletically from the low-slung car and strode towards Tommy.

“Hi. I'm Andy Harper. Has Eric Whitehouse arrived yet?”

“Err… yeah.” Tommy blinked. “He was the first to arrive, I think.”

The other man grinned. “I'm not surprised. Great.” He turned back to the car, giving a wave. Receiving one in return, the guy continued on his way, sure strides evidence he knew his way around.

Tommy refocused on the Jag, loving its dark, rich blue paint, and directed the driver to the most appropriate spot. One where coincidentally, the young man thought he stood a chance of getting an Insta-worthy selfie.

The driver, tall, and slimmer than his companion, got out as Tommy approached. He stood, brushing himself down. The guy wore a suit of the kind entirely alien to Tommy's personal experience and he rocked it – casual, confident elegance. Zoology didn't call much for business dress; Tommy was glad.

“Hi!” Any fuller greeting withered, overtaken by the need to know more about the car. He smiled. “I can't believe you've managed to get one of these new electric Jags. It's ace.”

The guy returned his smile, amusement causing to press his lips together. “You're not the first person to make that remark. I joined the waiting list as soon as it opened. Had it less than a month; so far, it's living up to expectations. Hi, I'm Adam Partington.”

“Tommy Standish.” The response was automatic. Questions crowded in on him. Partington? What relationship was he to Felicity? Did their houseguest know he was coming? Tommy gulped. He had no idea what to do or say. The guy seemed OK, but what did that mean? His mum would know. Then there was the car. And two other vehicles hesitating in the entrance to the drive.

He blurted out, “Would you be cool with me taking a selfie?”

“Now?” Adam Partington glanced over to the other cars and raised an eyebrow.

Tommy sighed. The front hedge was already lending a hint of dusk.

The guy strolled towards him. “How about I catch you later? We could arrange another time.”

“Thanks – I'd like that.” Gratitude flared briefly before he hurried off to continue his job.

Small knots of people formed, chattering and eating. In the hall, Eric watched from the sidelines. Guests spilled out from the dining room into the hall and the other downstairs rooms. Their evident enjoyment of the occasion, the food, and themselves curdled his mood further. Not one person apart from his hosts had bothered to come up and say anything. His own plate and glass were empty, though in truth, neither had been full to start with. Where was Rob? Or Andy.

Suddenly he thought he heard that familiar voice cutting through a lull in the general noise. Andy emerged from the dining room, deep in animated conversation with a much older woman. They both greeted someone else. Andy looked up for a moment. Eric, feeling a complete idiot, waved vigorously from his position on the other side of the hall. Andy's polite smile widened into a grin. Turning briefly to his companions, he left and threaded his way briskly across the space.

“Eric!” A keen pair of eyes looked him up and down. “Fuck – you look amazing. Transformed. I know you said Rob Bairstow forced you to buy some stuff. But–” Another grin. “Wow.”

“Rubbish.” Eric prickled with embarrassment.

His friend wore a pair of dark, tight-fitting trousers with a purple and turquoise patterned shirt. Eric stared. Andy carried it off with aplomb. He felt staid in comparison.

Andy chuckled. “You're always too cross-grained to take a compliment, Eric. Anyway, let's find Emily and get out into the garden while we can. I've only been here ten minutes and there's already a rumour of croquet.”

Shadows were lengthening over the expanse of garden which lay to the rear of the house. Andy, tablet computer in hand, strolled towards the far end. Emily kept pace; Eric trailed a little behind. A quick check over his shoulder reassured Andy the other man was only stopping more frequently to look at plants. He noted the absence of Eric's stick. That and his new clothes took years off his friend's age.

They reached the stand of common limes that formed the boundary. Andy craned his neck to look up into the huge, old trees. Even with the setting sun coming in at an angle, there were extensive dark patches already on the lawn which sloped gently down to them.

Eric cleared his throat. “Did I see a new bed planned for here? That ain't going to do much with these limes hogging the light.”

Andy smiled to himself. Eric hadn't looked too happy earlier; this was more like him. “Yep – if we were planning to leave them there. The two on the far edges will stay, otherwise they'll be felled.”

“You going to replace them with something?”

“That's up to Emily.” Andy turned. “Have you decided yet?”

Emily was tapping and swiping on her phone, a frown of annoyance clear on her face.

“Emily?”

“Fuck!” She looked up. “God, I'm hopeless sometimes. Apparently there's a tree preservation order which covers all the limes.”

“What?”

“I could've sworn I'd forwarded the local council's email to you.”

“Great.” Andy let out a sigh. “There is the possibility of an appeal, particularly if you're going to replace the felled trees with another smaller species. Otherwise –” He shrugged. “We'll have to start again.”

“It's not what I'd wish for either.” Emily stared at the trees. “Such great hopes for that bed to brighten things up down here.”

“What d'you think, Eric?” Andy was keen to include his friend.

The older man chewed a thumb while he thought. “Seems a pity to fell healthy, mature trees.” He looked back up the way they came. “You might run a bed down the middle there.” He pointed.

Emily's eyebrows rose. “Interesting. In fact, I quite fancy having both beds. Andy–”

Any instructions which might have followed, remained unsaid. In silence, they all watched a figure running full pelt towards them from the house.

“Tommy?” Emily's tone betrayed some alarm.

The youth skidded to a panting halt. “Mum – a guest's spilt a full glass of red wine over the carpet, the sofa, and herself. She's freaking out.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “It just had to happen, didn't it?”

Tommy shuffled. “And there's something else I need to tell you. In private.”

“OK. Does that have to be now as well?”

“Yes.”

Emily turned. “Sorry, Eric. And you, Andy. Hostess duties call. Andy, can we leave it that you'll devise some alternative strategies?”

“Yeah. I'll get back to you in a day or so.”

“Excellent.”

With that, both Standishes left in a hurry.

Andy stood in the gathering shadows, abstracted. A smaller, silent figure nearby didn't register. He chewed his lip. Ought he to have checked out the trees' status before making assumptions? Probably. Null points to him. Felling those trees was essential to his vision for the garden. More fool him then for not checking. He mentally assigned the task to first thing the following morning.

He was still considering the ramifications when the sound of Adam calling his name broke the spell.

“Andy!” His fiancé beckoned urgently from the top of the slope. “Come here!” He half-turned away as if he could scarcely wait. “Now!”

He obeyed, lope covering the ground effortlessly. Consternation and adrenalin conspired to make Andy forget utterly he'd left Eric behind.

Eric sidled past a small clump of smokers gathered on the patio and stumped through the kitchen into the entrance hall. Andy could go whistle for his apology. The old man grunted. Why did everyone regard him as part of their surroundings? Was he an item of furniture to be ignored or noticed only when it suited them?

He took his time looking around the mill of people. Neither of the lads was visible, though that was hardly surprising given Adam's summons. What was that all about? Emily still fussed around the woman who'd spilt wine everywhere. Even with his eyesight, the huge red stain on her light-coloured dress stood out like blood. Eric grimaced wryly. Maybe being invisible wasn't wholly bad; that accident was the stuff of his nightmares.

Emerging from the dining room, plate in hand, Tommy Standish spotted him. His mouth opened.

He hurried over. “Mr Whitehouse. Eric. I'm sorry. With everything else that was going down, I forgot to tell you your guest has arrived. He's–” The young man frowned. “He's in the library, I think. That door, there.”

Annoyance vied with relief. “How long's he been here?”

The flush deepened. “Twenty minutes or so.”

Tommy's chagrin was so clear, Eric took pity on him. “Thanks. Sounds as though you've been busy?”

A rueful eye roll in reply made even the old man smile.

He followed Tommy's direction and hesitated outside the door which stood slightly ajar. An ingrained habit from his working days of knocking and waiting for permission to enter made his hand twitch. Instead, he listened for a moment. A murmur of voices suggested several people were inside.

Re-tucking the new white shirt into his trousers, Eric entered, remembering belatedly to check the state of his shoes. He hastily gave them a rub on his disreputable socks. Rob stood, propped against the mantlepiece, chatting amiably with those around him. His black suede bomber jacket only partially covered up a startlingly floral, almost abstract patterned shirt. Eric tried not to stare. The Rob he'd encountered so far wore old casual stuff; this must be him making a statement. It worked.

Other guests wandered around the room, inspecting the many bookshelves and their contents. Eric owned barely one shelf of books. He recalled musty, unused contents of other libraries, leather-bound volumes bought for display and left to gather dust. These shelves were packed with colourful, modern titles, all jostling for position, despite the fact they must've been in packing cases not long before.

Rather than looking closer, Eric moved into Rob's sightline. His friend appeared somewhat pink. Whether that was the room's warmth or something else wasn't clear. Eric shrugged. The conversation round the fireplace lulled. Rob downed his drink and glanced up. Their eyes met.

The other man's face broke into a wide grin. “Eric!” He strode over and gave Eric a hug. “I thought we'd go the entire evening without meeting up.”

Cider fumes washed over Eric. “Trains again?”

“Not so much. Never keen on arriving just as the doors open.”

Unlike him. Eric swallowed a sigh. “And then I was out in the garden.”

“It's fine.” Rob gestured towards the men now loudly discussing politics round the unlit fire. “I met a couple of old clients and got introduced to some likely future ones.” He grinned. “Remember those photos I showed you? They've certainly earned their keep this evening. I'm pretty sure something will result.”

Rob didn't sound left out or aggrieved. In fact, it appeared he'd fitted in without any trouble. Eric tried to see past his bad temper in the search for something to say.

Instead Rob took his elbow and leant in. “Let's go and pay the feast another visit. I need some more food to anchor this cider.”

Eric agreed. Re-reading all those labels would be so much easier with a friend by his side.

From upstairs, the party noises were less distinct. More an oscillating hum with occasional spikes. Andy waited, back leant against a wooden balustrade which ran the length of the central atrium. He looked towards one of the bedrooms. The door opened.

Adam lingered on the threshold. “Ma, it's been so good to see you. I can't believe the coincidence.”

The joy on Adam's face made Andy's heart lurch. Of the two of them, Adam rarely displayed raw emotions. He, on other hand, had no such problem, crying copious happy tears while Emily knocked on the bedroom door which opened to reveal Adam's mother.

Felicity gave Adam a kiss on the cheek. “Fortune smiling on us, maybe. Anyway, now you can truly believe I'm fine. Slowly coming out from under your father's shadow.”

“That fucking bastard!” Adam stopped, biting down hard on his bottom lip. He took a breath. “Let us know how and when we can help. Please?”

“I will, darling. Emily and Nigel have been unfailingly generous, but I'll have to get a grip soon.”

Any reply from Adam was drowned out by a yell coming up from the party. “Who's for a game of croquet?!” A moment later, the same question – challenge? – was repeated closer.

Andy grinned to himself. Who could resist? “Adam?” Two heads turned in his direction. “Croquet?”

Adam moved closer, drawing Felicity after him. “Floodlit, or in the dark?”

“Who cares? I haven't played since uni.” He felt a ridiculous surge of anticipation. “It'll be fun.”

Felicity shook her head, unrestrained giggles bouncing off the corridor walls. “Andy, you're mad.”

“Only as much as he is.”

Adam smirked.

“I'll see you both very soon.” Felicity exchanged parting kisses.

With final waves, both men hurried downstairs.

When the party-wide croquet summons came, Eric welcomed it.

His easy conversation with Rob had been hijacked by a couple of well-fed, monied types who wanted Rob to continue with an earlier topic they'd been discussing. They sat down without invitation at their picnic-style table to one side of the hall. His own part-reminiscence, part-debate about apple varieties was overtaken by some financial nonsense which made his head spin. Didn't his connection with Rob matter? Rob was there as his guest. Eric fumed. Despite his friend's best efforts to introduce him to the other men, Eric had got the distinct impression he'd been expected to move along. He'd taken a perverse pleasure in remaining, munching through the food on his plate, an experience sweetened only by Rob's occasional, sardonic side glance.

Hearing the strong female voice, Eric brightened, hoping to see the two intruders take their cue.

Instead, Rob swung around. “Game time!” He leapt up. “Come on, Eric.” He held out one arm. “Let's see what's going on.”

He strode off, leaving the interlopers, and Eric, behind. The other men showed no inclination to follow, instead sharing a frown. They looked around them, stood up and swiftly joined another unsuspecting group of guests.

Eric remained seated, half-eaten samosas and bhajis on the plate in front of him, not knowing what to do. He couldn't waste the fancy food, and all his sulky looking-on had made him thirsty. Rob had left half a glass of cider behind. Eric decided to stick to juice. And did he really want to be on his feet again, loitering in the September evening chill to watch a game he didn't care about? He acknowledged Rob's presence would be one point in croquet's favour, but it didn't make him change his mind.

On route to the dining room for another drink, he spotted Rob in a gaggle of people heading outside into the garden. He was chatting to Andy. Adam was close by. They appeared to be getting along just fine, all smiles and laughter. Eric let out a long breath. Part of him welcomed the fact his various friends were getting to know each other. Another uglier, visceral part resented their joining of forces. Would that leave him on the outside?

He poured himself a drink from the closest bottle of apple juice and took a calming swig. When he'd cleared his plate, there'd be time for another brief stroll round the garden before going home. There had to be lighting of some sort out there. Otherwise, how would those idiots even play croquet?

It was only eight-thirty. Tommy Standish stared at his phone, willing the clock to move faster. Notifications from his so-called friends filled the rest of the screen, doubtless calling out his decision to be a general drudge for his parents. Faint sounds of laughter and the odd triumphant shout wafted in from the garden. Would anyone notice if he retreated upstairs?

A number of guests had already left, duty fulfilled, and with those out in the garden, the hall appeared comparatively empty. Over in the far corner, his mum was quietly gathering up glasses, plates, and other rubbish. Tommy shrugged. Looking around him, he started doing his own stacking. Fuck knew he had enough experience after house parties at uni.

Suddenly his dad's voice cut through. Not angry exactly; more, making it clear where he stood. Tommy grimaced. His dad was mostly laid back. Just occasionally, someone assumed that made him a pushover. It wasn't something they were likely to repeat. He recalled one shopping trip when a hardnosed sales rep had tried to bulldoze his dad into signing for some dodgy financial deal. Five minutes later, the guy had looked ready to bolt as every detail and snare was pointed out not only to him, but also to a small, interested group of other customers.

Now only vaguely clearing up, Tommy moved closer. The knot of city-types, suited and flushed with booze, he supposed, weren't exactly giving a fuck who heard.

One guy who did vaguely attempt to lower his voice, asked a question of the group. “What d'you think about this whole Partington affair? Damn disgrace, if you ask me.”

Tommy's ears pricked.

“Oh, yes?” That was his dad.

“Absolutely. Partington's being dragged through the mud by some young sexual pervert with a grudge. The case should've never made it to a police interview, never mind any further.” The disgust was clear on the guy's face. “Doubtless, the young bastard's hoping for a pay-off.”

“I agree,” someone else chimed in. “Complete waste of police time.”

“From what I read–” His dad's head cocked slightly, still reasonable, still listening. “Partington's got a case to answer.”

“Bollocks!” The guy's face turned puce.

“The list of likely charges isn't one that can be just explained away.”

“It's all a complete fabrication. A conspiracy.”

A guy who'd been on the group's fringes moved closer. “While I have no direct experience of the incident in question, the individual concerned works at the same firm as I do. Everyone has a right to work in a safe environment and to be treated with dignity–”

“Politcal correctness gone mad!”

“To be treated with dignity,” the guy repeated. “As a firm, I believe we are supporting this individual through the legal process. If Mr Partington is innocent, he has nothing to fear.”

“Do you really believe that?” The words were almost spat out.

“Yes.”

This was too much for the questioner. He slammed his glass down on the nearest flat surface and left. Glances were exchanged amongst the rest of the group.

Tommy continued to watch and listen, trying not to make it too obvious. His dad and the last guy moved away slightly.

“Oliver Partington's a nasty piece of work, by all accounts. Apparently, his wife took the opportunity to leave him.”

“Really?”

Tommy nearly snorted at his dad's display of polite disinterest.

The guy moved closer. “I thought I heard a laugh very like hers earlier? I recall it's quite distinctive.”

He remembered giggling coming from upstairs. Tommy froze.

His dad shook his head. “No. Unless you mean Adam, their son. He's one of our guests. But then, you must know him.” A polite smile.

“I do.” The guy shrugged. “My mistake.” With an answering smile, he wandered off.

Without meaning to, Tommy caught his dad's eye. His own relief was reflected back with interest.

Laughing, three men jostled each other as they left the garden and made their way back inside. Andy squinted against the bright kitchen lights. “God, I must've stopped noticing how dark it was out there, even with the lanterns.”

Adam bumped shoulders. “Is that one of your many excuses for losing?”

“No!”

Rob sighed. “Suppose it might explain how your fiancé kept on missing even the most helpfully placed balls of mine.”

“I did not!” A blush overtook Andy's face nonetheless. It hadn't been one of his better games. The mallet seemed to have a mind of its own.

In between messing up his shots, he thought he'd seen Eric hovering on the fringe of spectators. Had the older man gone home by now? With a twinge of guilt, Andy realised he'd pretty much left Eric to fend for himself in the excitement of hearing about Felicity. He turned. “Rob, have you seen Eric?”

“Nope. Not since the call to combat.” He grimaced. “I half thought he'd follow me outside. Oh, well. I need a drink.”

Andy caught the tail-end of a look on Adam's face. Rob wasn't drunk, but he knew from his own experience the cider had a hell of a kick concealed in its fruitiness. “You OK for getting back?”

“Yeah, the last train's in an hour. Better make this drink a water or something.”

They wandered through the steadily emptying house to the dining room. The croquet's conclusion had been the signal for many people to leave. Gathering their final drinks, the three men found themselves in the library.

Andy was pleased they were alone in the sparsely-lit room. He wanted to ask Rob questions. Gay questions. After a moment, he plucked one out of his head. “What's the club scene like in Brum currently, Rob? When we visit, we seem to stick to private parties.”

Adam chuckled. “Yeah. We haven't done the rounds of the gay quarter for a long while.”

Rob blinked. “Do I have a large sign over my head?”

“Saying what?” Andy frowned slightly. “I only ask 'cause you mentioned spending an evening at the Nightingale earlier.”

“Did I?” There was a pause. “Shit, I hope I didn't say anything embarrassing.”

Two heads shook.

“OK. Yeah, I spend time there with some of my mates.”

“What's the entertainment like now?”

He shrugged. “I'm a musical dinosaur. Their 80's and 90's nights are my favourites.”

Andy grinned. “Show off your moves?”

“Of course!” Rob grabbed his phone, squinted at the screen, tapped, then tinny music burst out.

It sounded like Queen, Andy thought.

The other man moved into a pool of light, took off his bomber jacket and started to dance. Strong rhythmical moves, graceful and sexy in their confidence. After a minute or so, Andy joined in, mirroring Rob's moves and adding in his own. A quick side glance showed Adam watching with approval. Andy grinned back. Rob and he didn't touch, but hands outlined whatever they wanted, bodies drew close, hot and tantalising. Nobody noticed a small, slight figure dressed in blue who now stood in the shadows.

The track finished.

Rob laughed, breathing a little laboured with the sudden exercise. “Wow. I have competition.”

“Yes, you do.” Andy rejoined Adam, wrapping an arm round his waist. “So what else does queer Birmingham have to offer?”

“There's Boltz.”

Andy choked, spluttering in astonished glee. “Fuck me! Shit – I never dared go there. They still going?”

“Yep.”

His jaw dropped open. “Come on. Spill the beans.”

Rob smirked. “How about the last DareToBare?”

Both Andy and Adam gasped before drawing closer. Andy felt heat rising up his body.

“You'll have never seen a dick like the one sported by a certain ginger.” Rob sighed. “God, he was gorgeous, in all respects.”

“Why aren't you shacked up with him?”

Rob narrowed his eyes. “That's not Boltz. Anyway, turned out he's taken. In an open relationship. Still, I'm not sure I could cope with that cock every day. Jesus, the struggle I had to swallow him down.” He demonstrated, adding in sound effects. “When I'd taken as much as I could, it felt as though the damn thing reached here.” Rob touched the halfway point on his neck. “I was trying not to suffocate–”

“Yeah. You kinda forget to breathe through your nose.” He winced. Adam had needed to stop on numerous occasions.

“And the gagging.” More sound effects. “But it was bloody wonderful. The guy came in gushes. Filled the condom.” He mimicked ecstatic grunts and groans. “Said he thought his balls were turning inside out.”

They all turned as the door creaked, slamming closed. Andy thought he'd caught sight of a blue cuff. They looked at each other for a moment.

“So Boltz suits you?” Adam was a little flushed.

“Definitely. It's safe. I can scratch that particular itch as much or as little as I want. And it's discreet.”

“Do you always go alone?”

“Sometimes I arrange to meet up with a mate, Zaf. We don't operate as a pair though.” Rob yawned. “God – I'd better make a move. Don't wanna miss that train.”

Andy looked Adam's direction, raising an eyebrow. He received a nod in return. “You're welcome to stay with us, Rob.” He smiled. “We've spare toothbrushes, towels, and the rest.”

“Really? That'd be great.” Another yawn. “God, that cider's a secret weapon. At this rate, I'd be lucky to wake up in Crewe.”

Adam held out an arm. “Come on. Let's say our goodbyes and get you home.”

Eric slammed the cottage's front door closed and flopped exhausted into his armchair. Why the hell hadn't he left the party after his second walk in the garden? But no. Instead, like some sodding lapdog, he'd spotted his friends and felt impelled to follow them into the library. Why? It wasn't as if they'd paid him much attention throughout the whole bloody evening. He knew that wasn't fair, but anger and disgust blotted it out.

His tired, disappointed mind fixed on the fun and camaraderie the other men had all enjoyed in his absence. First, croquet; then the crude, sexually explicit, embarrassing scene in the library. Did Rob really do that? Have sex with strangers. Why? Surely it was dangerous. Disgusting. Eric heard distant echoes of his mother's voice in that single word. But wasn't it though? And probably disease-ridden. He'd skimmed over articles online, but never, ever thought he'd know someone who was involved. And it had to be Rob. Eric scowled, his guts in a worse state than before the damned party.

He felt let down by Andy. Of course, he knew the lads got up to things in the bedroom. But– Coldness seeped down Eric's spine. That wasn't the Andy he knew. Or thought he knew. The eager, flushed, feral expressions on the young man's face reminded him of times at work. Times when a baying pack of lads on the estate swapped tales of their sexual conquests. Eric squirmed. His humiliating naivete had been plain to see – blushing, stuttering whenever he failed to avoid the subject. He clearly remembered the increase in volume every time he'd come within earshot of the group, with particularly salacious details being bellowed out. The humiliation. He felt faintly sick.

So what was he going to do about it all? He had no idea.