Just another Monday - 1. Chapter 1

One more summer's day in the city.

Thunder rolled around mounded, purplish-grey skies which stretched from horizon to horizon. In the distance, shabby blocks of council flats appeared to reach up accusingly into the air, as if to blame the storm for any number of predicaments they and their tenants were currently experiencing. The lousy weather leached out any distinguishing colours, leaving only blacks and greys. And yet more greys.

On either side of the main road, non-descript, flat-roofed industrial buildings sat glumly in rows, waiting for the rain to end. Three stationary lines of commuter traffic into the city created an underwater light show of reds, bluish whites, and the occasional amber as some optimist attempted to change lanes.

Bloody roadworks. Bloody British non-summer.

On the number 83 express bus, rain sluiced down grimy, partially fogged-up windows. The water seemed to lack any scouring effect on dirty glass. Everyone huddled into their waterproof jackets, folded-up brollies dripping insistently onto the floor. Everyone except Julian Palmer. He didn't need an umbrella to add to the general wetness – he and his clothes were doing a good enough job by themselves.

What'd happened to the weekend's dry, occasionally sunny weather? He'd been in such a rush earlier, he hadn't thought to check the app. Or even look out of their 1900s, sort-of Arts and Crafts semi. By the time he'd realised just how wet he was getting, there'd been no time to turn back. None. So here he was on his usual, laughably titled express bus into the city, wearing a leaf green linen jacket which felt as though it'd been dragged out of the washing machine before the spin cycle had finished.

An email pinged onto his phone's screen. Even the preview made Julian's teeth grind – the bus company extolling the simplicity and reliability of using its express buses. Lying bastards.

He hated Mondays.

The weekend had been so good. Fantastic. Sexy as fuck. Which accounted for that morning's moments of disorganised panic, the background burn and stretch from his arse, and a residual feeling of blissed-out satisfaction which was rapidly dissipating. In the early morning light, Eddie'd rolled him over for a quickie to celebrate finding a third who not only wanted to play with them but wasn't against the idea it might lead to something more permanent. That would hopefully be for later. Much later, when the three of them had talked everything through and really got to know each other.

Honest, open communication between all parties was a cornerstone of polyamory, especially when everyone involved would hopefully be living in close proximity. Sharing or accepting uncomfortable, hard truths would be another. All the websites and books said so. Julian grimaced. Eddie loved being the communicator. He didn't. It had taken years, and Eddie's patient coaxing, before Julian had been able to voice his own deepest desires without feeling he'd immediately be dismissed or despised.

His parents had done a great job there. Excellent work. Sour memories of teen him being reduced to red-faced, impotent, seething silence at the dinner table resurfaced. On one occasion, he'd been describing the school day, a requirement of his father's that often caused arguments. Usually, Julian passed over Relationship and Sex Education in one mumbled sentence, if he could. This time–

“Sean Moffat says–”

“Mr Moffat,” his mother interjected, emphasising the honorific. She dabbed at her lips with a disposable napkin, leaving a bloody smear on the paper from the tomato-rich sauce they were having with overcooked spaghetti.

Julian glowered. “He says it's fine in class to drop the–”

His dad's fist caused the entire table to judder. Glasses and crockery made a halting bid for the table's edge before Julian instinctively grabbed hold of his plate and water glass.

Red-faced, the older man leaned over the table towards him. “Is this the poofter I've heard so much about?”

“What if he is?” There was an edge to his voice. Julian's heart thumped. “He's a great teacher. Smart and kind.” The volume kept rising. “He's not some washed-up, wannabe Bill Gates like you.” This ended in a shout.

“Julian!” His mother's voice squawked in outrage. “Your father works very hard, as do I, to give you the best education we can. The best life. Apologise immediately.”

A tense silence followed.

Julian's father ran the IT department of a medium-sized, stuffy department store which somehow clung onto life in their county town. To hear him talk, anyone would be forgiven for thinking he belonged in Silicon Valley.

Both his parents glared at him. Julian didn't apologise. Instead he took a breath, feeling queasy. “Sean told us being gay is a normal part of being human.” His voice proved as difficult to control as his guts, volume and tone all over the place. “He said–”

The table bucked, more violently this time. Water from Julian's glass sloshed over the rim and dribbled towards the table's edge. He watched the liquid flow, the splatters seeming to move in slow-motion, and held his breath.

The older man, face puce, reared over the table in Julian's direction, spittle flying. “You say one more fucking word about that nonce, and how being queer is acceptable, and I'll get you transferred to you-know-where within the week.”

He meant the local comprehensive, a place where, according to rumour, the theory of evolution seemed to operate in a mirror world. Julian knew with a sick certainty he'd last a fortnight there at most. A coward at heart, he stared down blankly at his plate and wished himself anywhere but at that table. The older man subsided back into his seat, accompanied by soothing female murmurs.

Fucking bastard. Julian's temples throbbed with suppressed anger and humiliation.

The rest of the meal had passed under a thick pall of seething rage. Julian couldn't leave the table without clearing his plate. To do so meant losing phone privileges – landline and his precious new smartphone, his link to a hoped-for better, saner world. The family's desktop computer lived in his father's study and was policed with such rigour Julian scarcely dared use the BBC's website.

Every so often, his mother uttered a banal sentence or two and left the words to hang in the air. Not a single one garnered a response. Finally, he'd forced down the last of the disgusting pasta and charged off upstairs, slamming his bedroom door closed so hard the kitchen crockery rattled in its cupboards.

Julian stared out the grimy bus window. He remembered clearly spending the subsequent hours alternately being sick in the bathroom and lying on his bed, crying hot, huge tears of despair. Downstairs, his parents turned the TV up louder and pretended nothing had happened.

Only a very few years out from the repeal of Section 28, it must've taken some courage to teach a classroom of teens that queer relationships were equal. That they merited respect and understanding. It had been what he'd needed to hear, whatever his father ranted. Sean Moffat became a confidante, a role model, a source of information – all things that wouldn't have been possible ten years earlier.

He watched vehicles inch forward until the temporary traffic lights turned to red again. The wretched things must be letting all of three cars through at a time. A younger guy sitting next to him stank of weed. Was he going to a job? Or maybe coming back from one. The scruffy jeans and washed-out tee didn't say either way. Working nights wouldn't be survivable without something extra for him either.

Julian straightened in his seat and eased his way out of the jacket. Once off, the damp, slippery linen nearly ended up on the filthy floor. In grabbing hold of the jacket, the laptop case slid along damp trousers and then down between his legs. Its unstoppable descent was followed swiftly by both his phone and the new, fancy reading glasses sans case.

God, he really fucking hated Mondays.

Five minutes later, hot, flustered, and even more rumpled, Julian clutched everything to his chest as he sat rigid in the seat. Little by little, he forced the death-grip to relax, first placing the laptop case, which was waterproof and black, back down between his legs. The guy next to him hadn't stirred at all, head bobbing to an inaudible beat. Instead, help had come from a smartly-dressed Black woman in the seat behind who'd caught both his phone and the hardly-worn glasses. She handed them over with a sympathetic smile which somehow made Julian feel even more of a clumsy fool.

His breathing settled. The bus finally made it through the set of temporary traffic lights before coming to a halt again. After a minute or two, he tipped his head against the glass and tried to see what was happening ahead. An accident? Sirens approaching from behind appeared to confirm his suspicions. More delay.

His fellow passenger giggled, a bead of saliva hanging from his lower lip, ready to drop. The guy shunted closer to Julian, head lolling as if seeking cuddles. Julian debated elbowing him in the ribs, telling him to 'Fuck off', or being typically British and doing nothing. He compromised by shoving the laptop case, like a demarcation line, in between them.

A reminder chinged on his phone. Julian grimaced. His annual evaluation should be starting in an hour. On the road, blue lights still flashed up ahead. He would need every spare minute once he arrived at Peacock Feather Publishing to appear less like a shipwreck survivor. Normally, the evaluation was a chore, necessary but boring. A new manager had changed the equation. Plus, there were rumours swirling around of a restructure, or hostile takeover, or both. Publishing looked so sedate from the outside; in reality, it was often a snakepit.

Really not a great morning for a bed-based workout. Despite agreeing with himself, a smirk replaced his earlier grimace. He couldn't get enough of Eddie's stubble scratching against his shoulders and the back of his neck. The subtle pleasure/pain deepened whenever the scruff passed over a reddening bite mark and mirrored the intoxicating, stinging fullness in his arse. Eddie hadn't held back, knowing they both loved it like that. And being Monday morning, time was short.

Julian took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He needed to focus. The bus lurched forward a couple of hundred metres before stopping again.

His phone rang with the particularly irritating chirpy tone he'd allocated to his mother. He stared at the screen for long, long seconds before answering. “I'm on the bus, Mum. Can it wait?”

“Good morning, Julian. How are you? Don't worry, darling, I'll be quick.”

Julian half closed his eyes and tried to swallow the annoyance. “Good morning. I'm sorry for being snappish, Mum, but it's already turning out to be the Monday from hell.”

“You do exaggerate, Julian. I'm sure it's got worse since you've known Edward.”

“Eddie, Mum. Eddie. That's his name. It isn't difficult.”

She let out an exasperated breath. “Why do people insist on infantilising their names?”

Julian didn't bother to reply.

“Anyway, it's just a brief chat.”

“As if,” he muttered under his breath.

“Pardon?”

Julian's eyes widened. He really did need to get a grip.

“Are you still there, Julian?”

“Of course, Mum. I may have to phone work soon though. The traffic's horrendous.”

“Well, if you will travel by bus. I'm sure you could afford a car. I don't know, the people you see on buses–”

He ignored the bait. Working in publishing was many things. A way to earning a fortune wasn't one of them. He stared unseeing out the grubby, rain-smeared window and waited. The bus moved forwards, slowly, before halting to let on a small horde of passengers, most of whom had to stand.

“Anyway, looking at my diary for this week, I realised I hadn't made my usual courtesy call to let you and… Edward know I'll be paying you a visit.”

Julian shot upright in the seat. “When?” The hand not holding his phone clutched onto the rest of his belongings.

“As I said,” her tone was reproving, “I am a little late giving you notice before I arrive on Saturday. You'll have to forgive me.” A false, self-deprecating laugh grated on Julian's nerves. “It must be my age, you know. I completely forgot to buy the Telegraph yesterday.”

The Daily Telegraph had been his father's bible, his view out into the world. Every morning without fail, the reactionary, homophobic bastard sat at the breakfast table reading the latest news and opinions. Explosive grunts and regular outbursts of 'Damned communists' and 'Quite right's peppered whatever desultory conversation his mother tried to have with schoolboy him. Julian had no idea why she continued to buy the newspaper. Habit? Or nostalgia. He'd never seen her reading it while his father was alive.

His mother continued, “And last week, I twice left Waitrose after doing my shopping without claiming my free cup of coffee.” Her voice brightened. "It'll be my usual weekend routine, darling. I'll arrive early Saturday and leave Sunday evening. You know train tickets are cheaper then. We did agree every three months or so would be fine for one of my visits. I distinctly recall you saying so.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck, no! Anger and frustration threatened to well up. What agreement? He must've been drunk. Or high. This anger was something else Eddie had encouraged him to verbalise, to keep within boundaries. The old reflex urge to kick something hard or yell still lurked at the back of Julian's mind. It no longer dominated him like it used to when he was younger. He'd mostly won that battle. What sometimes eluded him was actually winning the verbal sparring that took its place. That most often happened when it came to his mother.

They'd already arranged another exploratory session with Tyro, their potential long term third. He and Eddie only rarely visited kink clubs – Julian didn't understand or enjoy exhibitionism or the undercurrent of competitiveness – but they liked to vet play-partners in advance. Clubs were as good a place as any to do so. After a no-show one evening, they'd spotted Tyro alone at the bar. Young, fit, and with a faint air of vulnerability, he pinged their radar big time. An offer of a drink led to the three of them chatting. After discovering a shared love of schlock horror movies and heaping scorn on their respective football clubs, they soon moved onto the real business of the night.

Tyro fitted. Sexually, yes, but also as a guy for whom he and Eddie were developing feelings, in and out of the bedroom. For fuck's sake. He tried to imagine his mother materialising bright and early in their kitchen without first ringing the doorbell. She had a back door key for emergencies and wasn't afraid to use it. Her excuse of not wanting to be a bother was as irritating as hell, and that was after several conversations on the subject of boundaries.

His mouth opened. It took a real effort of will to close it again. The mind boggled. His mother walking in on them lounging in the kitchen, the three of them wearing virtually nothing. Standing at the foot of the stairs and hearing overlapping grunts, cries, and sounds of bodies coming together emanating from the bedroom. Julian's face heated. She barely tolerated Eddie. Polyamory? She'd probably have a stroke. Or a heart attack.

“Julian?”

The bus finally settled into a leisurely lope.

“Yes, still here.” He took a breath and held it for a moment. “Mum, we've talked about this before. As much as I – we – appreciate your visits–” Eddie's face flashed into Julian's imagination, a single raised eyebrow signalling his 'Really?' Julian swallowed a snort into a cough. “Sorry. Yes, we can't always accommodate you. If I said every three months or so for a visit, that was only a guide. There are Eddie's parents. His siblings. Our friends. We might already have plans for the weekend. Giving us barely five days notice doesn't work, Mum.” Julian stopped to breathe, his face burning with barely-suppressed anger. “I know you said you forgot, but that doesn't make it any more acceptable.”

Eddie had been quietly furious the last time she'd 'forgotten' to give them sufficient notice. They'd had to cancel tickets for an evening of queer cabaret, together with the opportunity of hooking-up – pre-Tyro – with a third. Plans for a much-needed domestic chore Sunday had been discarded in the dance to accommodate his mother.

Julian held the phone without listening to it. Jesus! The three of them had woken yesterday morning and only allowed time for a brief spell in the bathroom before resuming where they'd left off. Or Eddie and Tyro had. Julian's expanse of time spent soaring high the night before meant he lay next to them, happy to be a spectator. Every twinge and complaining muscle served as a welcome reminder of the bliss. And yet. Compersion, that new-found delight in seeing the people he loved and desired enjoying themselves sexually, finally spurred him into action. Loud, vocal action.

The thought his mother might in some way be a witness to something similar was horrifying. And grimly amusing? As a teen, he'd been grateful to barely witness his parents exchange a kiss on the cheek. Now, he wondered what being in such a loveless relationship did to people.

“Julian?” His mother's irritation buzzed through the sexy fog in his brain. “I'd appreciate your attention. It's only a short visit. We hardly ever talk on the phone, and I miss you.”

Did she? Julian didn't miss her. Not really.

His mother paused for moment, maybe expecting him to agree with her, before continuing, “I find it galling Amy Buchanan gets to see her daughter and grandson twice a month. She's forever talking about them. I, on the other hand, barely have enough to–”

He held the phone away from his ear and counted to ten. The tinny voice, high-pitched with recriminations, continued. He tried another twenty.

A gap finally appeared in the stream of words. “Mum!” His ears rang with her affronted silence. Several people on the bus looked round. Julian dropped his voice. “Now isn't the time. Yes, I appreciate your visits.” Liar? “You know I do, but they have to fit in with the rest of my life. I'll phone you this evening after I get home and we'll talk again.” Each word came out progressively more clipped. “This isn't finished.”

More silence followed. Julian imagined his mother's face, pink, with darker red patches high on her cheeks.

“I suppose you leave me no choice, Julian. What a way for a son to talk to his mother. I didn't–”

Julian's finger hovered over the virtual red button and cut her off, mid-flow. Unfortunate but necessary – for his sanity if nothing else. He knew it would colour that evening's encounter. Why did he find it so difficult to say 'no' to her? He denied Eddie stuff. Their play-partners. His own friends. They took notice. They respected his choices.

Leaning back against the seat, Julian felt an unwelcome dampness against his skull. Reluctantly, he switched his phone screen to mirror mode. Strands of light brown hair appeared to lie in every possible direction, all flattened and still faintly wet. Jesus, what he would give for a towel. Instead, he balanced the phone in his lap and employed all ten fingers in trying to return his hair to its modish cut. It was futile, of course, but a minute or so later, he looked slightly less like a drowned rat.

The bus slowed again, though it kept moving. He estimated the likely arrival time. With a grimace, he picked up the phone. Another call loomed.

It connected on the second ring. “Marmaduke Percy.”

The upper-class drawl grated as usual. Didn't the idiot think to look at his screen to see who was calling? Management levels in publishing seemed to attract monied pillocks who wanted a job with bragging rights but who couldn't be arsed to earn those rights. And it was one of many reasons why those who worked with books, and who loved and needed the job, were paid a pittance.

“Marmaduke? It's Julian.” A cacophonous outburst of blaring horns from somewhere in the traffic made him ram a finger against his unoccupied ear. “I may be a little delayed for our personal evaluation meeting this morning. Sorry, but the traffic in from my way is horrendous.”

Silence greeted his excuse. As it drew out, Julian realised his boss was having a conversation away from the phone. The volume increased as Percy emphasised some point or another with a few choice expletives. Julian pursed his lips. Spacing out his mother was one thing; refusing to engage with a colleague was simply rude.

He coughed, loudly.

More exclamations followed. And sounds of scrabbling. Every time he'd seen it, Marmaduke Percy's desk achieved a level of chaos Julian hadn't experienced before. Two minutes into the call and his manager's phone had probably been claimed by the morass.

“Who is this?”

“Julian. About my annual evaluation?”

“Yes?” A puzzled disinterest coloured the word.

How could blinking be audible? He pictured Percy sitting at his oversized desk, brain rebooting.

Julian decided to help him out. “You scheduled my evaluation for 9.30 this morning?”

“Oh.” Then firmer, “Oh. I cancelled last week–”

“Without telling me.” As he spoke, Julian pushed down hard, but the end of the sentence still rose, signalling his anger.

“Thought you'd be OK with it. It's a formality, to my mind.” An imaginary hand flicked air.

Except his salary increase, meagre as it might be, depended on a positive assessment. Julian ground his teeth.

“Actually,” his boss continued, “I've got you down for a meeting this afternoon. Sophia – their senior manager – and I believe your portfolio would benefit from further diversification. I think True Crime to be a good fit. Three o'clock OK?”

There was the briefest of pauses before the call ended.

Fucking hell!

Julian's fingers balled into fists. He responded by regulating his breathing and telling himself he needed time to think. Calling Percy back and yelling at him wouldn't do a thing to change whatever management had planned and would most likely get Julian shown the door.

There were only fifteen minutes or so left of the journey. A single, fitful beam of sunlight pierced the gloom. The torrents running down the windows had slowed to more of an ooze. Maybe the worst was over. The bus halted again – this time to let off passengers. It didn't restart. Evidently the driver had decided it was time to have a chat with central control.

Julian felt the wave of frustration ripple through the remaining passengers. At least it allowed time for an initial assessment of his position beyond simple disbelief. True crime? He had no experience in non-fiction. No contacts. No track record. A small part of him wondered whether broadening his portfolio really was the reason for Percy's proposal. Personal development? Possible, but unlikely.

Since Percy's arrival three months before, Julian and several other co-workers had experienced a series of micro-aggressions. Nothing to take to HR or make a scene about. There again, he'd seen Sadia take the other man to one side for a quiet chat more than once. His comments about her headscarf choices continued. For Julian, it was surprise at his love of soccer – watching and playing. Always jokey, always said with a smile – of sorts. Julian's lip curled. Yes, he dressed flamboyantly. So what? It was hardly a standout feature in the publishing industry. Plenty of gay guys kept trim and played sports.

If he and Eddie ever came out as a throuple with another guy, what passed as his manager's brain would probably explode. He paused. Was he thinking the worst of someone? No, he decided. If Percy had difficulty with Muslim dress codes and queer guys playing football, polyamory would make him seize up. Julian smiled to himself. That on its own would almost make the announcement worth it. He focused. What could he offer to take on instead of True Crime? What fitted in best with the Teen/YA and LGBTQ titles he already covered? At least it suggested he was going to survive whatever cull was around the corner.

His fingers tightened hold of the crumpled linen jacket. Whatever Percy foisted on him, it would be to someone else's detriment. Someone who could potentially lose their job. Potentially? He scowled. Would lose their job. Another thing publishing wasn't known for: sentiment.

He could walk away. Swap ten years in the book trade for something less masochistic. And do what? Eddie and he weren't rich. They needed both their salaries to afford what they already had.

The bus finally grumbled back to life. A sub-audible sigh of relief ghosted along the passengers. Except for the guy next to Julian who remained oblivious to everything not happening between his ears. Julian donned his reading glasses to jot notes on his phone in the few minutes remaining.

A WhatsApp banner popped up in his notifications. Eddie. The lucky bastard had a work from home day. Waves of rich, knowing giggles had followed Julian down the stairs as he fled via the kitchen to rescue his workbag and the sodding useless jacket. The front door was usually reserved for visitors and other formalities. Smug bastard. The bastard he adored, who looked out for him, and who devised some of the most amazing sex ever, making real their fantasies and desires.

Warmth rolled through Julian. He waited for tendrils of steam to waft up from his still damp clothing. Eddie was probably stuck in some virtual partners' meeting, bored out of his skull. He envisioned a discussion of contract law minutiae, or chambers diversification – that bloody word again. Being a defence barrister usually meant half the world were in search of your services.

Eddie's message drew him back to the phone. Enjoying your day so far? The words were followed by a peach, an aubergine, and a grinning face with its tongue hanging out. Plus a tiny figure in running gear.

Julian stared at the screen. Yes, and no. A very large dollop of 'no'. He paused, wondering how much to share. Honest and open communication. But there was also too much information, particularly when they both had work to concentrate on. His mother and her demands could wait until the evening. After he'd spoken to her again, preferably.

I got fucking soaked!

A smirking emoji appeared on his screen.

Percy's threatening to give me True Crime. WTAF!

Why?

Julian selected a shrugging man emoji and sat with his fingers poised over the virtual keyboard. Neither of them dug deep into their work lives when they were home chatting. Eddie was aware of the general shitstorm brewing at Peacock Feather though.

He continued, It'll be an excuse to get rid of someone else. Crap situation all round.

Instead of a reply in the app, his phone rang. “You'll have to be quick, babe, I'm nearly there. At long last. Anyway, aren't you working?”

“They've got so deep into some shit I know nothing about, I reckoned they wouldn't miss me for a minute or so.” A pause followed. “You OK?”

Honest and open. Julian's breath hitched. So many things could come out of that afternoon's meeting. “I'm thinking of what else to offer Percy.”

“Something else fiction?”

“Gotta be. For fuck's sake, I see these people every day. It feels like I'm selecting who's going to be out the door first.” Any question of him resigning would be for a later date. He, Eddie, and possibly Tyro, would have to chew over every aspect.

“Jules, love, if they're fixed on redundancies and you wanna stay–”

Debatable.

“You'll have to fight for it.”

He knew that only too well. His guts writhed at the thought.

Looking up, other people were getting ready to get off the bus. “Gotta go. Love you, babe.”

“And you too. Don't worry. Give Percy whatever shit he'll eat up. We'll talk after supper. What d'you want?”

“To eat?”

“Yeah.” A broad smile shone through that single word.

“We got some pork tenderloin?”

“Think so. If not, Sainsbury's is five minutes away.”

“You spoil me.”

“I do.” A kiss followed before Eddie disconnected.

Despite everything, Julian set out on his five-minute walk to Peacock Feather Publishing with a spring in his step.

Plans. He was making plans.

When lunchtime came around, Julian sank into his favourite window seat at Comptor Libanous with relief. The Lebanese-owned restaurant offered North African and Middle East cuisine at reasonable prices in unpretentious surroundings. He enjoyed looking out at the bustling, pedestrianised street with its varied cafe culture, optimistic seating lurking under damp-looking city trees. Shafts of warm, washed-clean sun dried the pavement, though there were enough thunderous-looking clouds remaining to make Julian wonder whether he'd get another soaking on the way home.

He squirmed on the simple wooden seat, trying to find the least uncomfortable position.

Bastard. Bastards, in fact. Julian smiled ruefully. Tyro enjoyed administering pleasure/pain nearly as much as Eddie. At least with Tyro, Julian stood a chance of turning the tables. Eddie wasn't a pain freak, for all he enjoyed dishing it out. And he was the boss in their bedroom. In theory. The smile broadened. Both he and Eddie understood their dynamic. And now, the dynamic was evolving.

Thoughts of work elbowed their way in. His workbag sat between his legs. Julian wasn't entirely clear why he brought it. He'd spent several hours chewing over his options and wasn't any closer to making a decision. If he couldn't resign at this point, then taking on more work was his only option. What work though? Julian took a sip from his glass of lightly chilled white wine and sighed. Mondays often seemed to warrant that minor indulgence. They couldn't afford wine every day even if he wanted it. Usually, he settled for helping himself from the jug of iced water that sat on the main counter.

If Tyro joined them full-time though, his contribution to household expenses should make things a little easier. And what would that make their hoped-for third? Their tenant? A lodger? Julian shrugged. That would be for Eddie to sort out if the three of them decided to formalise things rather than go with the flow. A knot or two in his shoulders loosened.

It had been a tetchy morning in the office – tempers on a short fuse and everyone disposed to take offence. Even their ever-helpful intern made herself scarce, swearing under her breath. Trying to concentrate on anything had involved a pair of noise-cancelling headphones and a ferocious, keep-off scowl on Julian's face. News of the impending restructure, shake-out, or whatever was in the offing had evidently done the rounds.

He'd only relented when Beth Morgan strode up to his desk, tapped him on the arm and made the two-fingered T sign. A sideways tilt of her head was enough for Julian to realise he was parched. There hadn't been time for any niceties earlier, given how late he'd arrived at his desk.

A petite, feisty, bi woman in charge of Romance, Beth was as close to a friend as he got at work. She grinned. Stooping slightly, she whispered, “You look ready to murder someone. Come tell me all?”

Julian rolled his eyes. Still, he took off the headphones and followed Beth to the corner of their open-plan office where the kettle, microwave, and fridge resided.

They kept their voices low, while trying not to look like conspirators or office gossips.

“Oh, it's everything,” Julian offered in reply to Beth's earlier question. “The Monday from hell.”

“Tell me about it.” Dark purple painted lips thinned. “Could the atmosphere here get more poisonous?”

He shrugged. “Rumours of job losses don't exactly make for a happy workplace.” They exchanged a look. Julian continued, “I'm summoned to a meeting with Percy this afternoon. Potential changes afoot.” He grimaced.

“Hmm… I'd heard that much already.” Beth eyed him. “Do your homework and you'll be fine.”

“Yeah?” Again, Julian's temper flexed its muscles. “He's an upper-class tosser who couldn't sell a book if he tried.”

Beth quietly stirred sugar into a steaming mug of something which smelled of hedgerows after rain. He sloshed milk into opaque builder's tea and took a gulp, not caring about the aftertaste of burnt tongue and mouth.

After taking a sip or two of her own drink, Beth let out a breath. “Julian, it's not like you to write someone off.”

He opened his mouth.

She forestalled him. “Yes, he's a privileged twat. And he's infuriatingly messy. But… I think there's more of a brain in there than you give him credit for.”

“Really?” A couple of heads turned at Julian's squawk of incredulity.

“Yes, really.” Beth's tone remained calm.

Julian's face heated. He turned to grab a couple of uninviting biscuits, paid for from the tea fund, and willed his temper to get back into its box. Don't be like your mother. The uninvited thought widened his eyes and made him pause. How many times during his childhood had she categorised someone on first sight and then refused to change her mind?

Their then local vicar had been a prime example. A self-effacing man with a light, tenor voice, a good line in humorous, meaningful sermons, and an infectious giggle, he'd been labelled a 'disgrace to the Church' by his mother and comprehensively ignored. Had it been the levity or the perceived unmanliness? Either way, it didn't matter now.

Julian recalled his earlier snap decision to condemn Percy – not for the first time either – and sighed. “OK. You talk to him more than I do.”

“I'm not saying he's publishing's brightest star–” Beth cocked an expertly-shaped eyebrow. “Far from it. But you've nothing to lose by going to that meeting well-briefed and with an open mind.”

Julian let out a breath. “You're right. Thanks for the push in the right direction.” He needed a job, and it wasn't as if this one was insufferable.

Beth smiled. “You'll be fine.”

He hoped so.

In the restaurant, Julian chewed morosely on a spiced falafel and humus filled flatbread and used a fork to poke the accompanying fattoush side salad in search of sumac. The dried berries with their citrus tartness were his favourite element. He followed that with a mint-infused mouthful of greenery, then bit down again on the flatbread, crunching a couple of pomegranate seeds and loving the pops of sweetness that followed.

Lunch was mostly an exercise in being restrained. It didn't mean he passed the sweet display without several pangs of regret. Baklava was only for special days – birthdays, anniversaries – when he and Eddie together could enjoy sweet, honeyed, sticky pastries.

Watching two pencil-thin, fashionably-dressed women argue over the calorific content of one small pastry, Julian smiled to himself. Been there; done that. It wasn't worth the angst. Better to ignore them until the occasional blowout could be justified. A blowout in baklava terms probably meant three pastries. Maybe four if Eddie pushed him.

Feeling he somehow occupied the moral high ground, Julian opened the notes app on his phone and got down to the business of listing what needed to happen in practical terms if Tyro were to join them full-time in their house. Eddie, for all his communication skills and seemingly bottomless empathy, wasn't the greatest organiser. At home anyway.

When at work, his husband experienced no such trouble. From the way Eddie described it, he just got his head into gear and focused damn hard, with the possible exception of partner catch-up meetings. Maybe everything else was a reaction to such full-on concentration? And at home, he knew Julian was there. A burst of warmth flooded Julian's core – short-lived but always welcome. As was the validation, the knowledge, their relationship worked on more levels than what went on in their bedroom.

Julian smiled ruefully to himself. Of course, he knew that but it never hurt to have evidence. Finishing off the last of the flatbread and falafels, he dragged his own focus back. Reawakening the phone, he stared at the blank screen. What needed to happen if their proposed third became a thing? He'd need two lists. One if Tyro decided to keep his base elsewhere; the other, if he were to move in with them.

He typed Keys. Either way, there'd come a time he and Eddie would have to demonstrate trust. Julian started a list of keys. The back door one was always a pain. Old-fashioned and not a standard pattern, many a locksmith had sucked their teeth over making a duplicate. The last time had been for his mother. It was the only key they allowed her and she'd dropped it somewhere outside. Down a drain most likely. Julian held back a shudder at the thought of the evening's conversation to come.

He reached for the jacket. Although now dry, it still looked as though it had spent the past month stuffed into a small bag. Another job for the evening. He would have to be jacketless for the meeting with Marmaduke. Without having to look, one hand delved into the inside pocket where he kept driving licence, debit card – in case he found himself without a functioning phone – and his keys.

Questing fingers traced the sharp lines of the card-holder which held his bank card and driving licence. Nothing else. The fingers spread out, reaching into every corner, as if a bunch of keys would be hiding in a square centimetre of linen. There were no keys.

Nothing? Shit! Julian used both hands to search each and every pocket, ignoring the last of his wine. Jacket, trousers, every crevice of the wretched bag, before returning to the crumpled, useless jacket in one last hope for a miracle.

He swore aloud, causing a couple of other diners to pause and watch him for a couple of seconds before returning to their food. Had the keys dropped out on the bus? It seemed likely. Probable. He was unreasonably disappointed that the rescuer of his jacket hadn't spotted the wandering keys. Why hadn't he?

Could the day get any fucking worse? A wry smile flickered briefly. Yes, it could, and he'd do better than tempt fate. As of then, he still had a job, however much grief it gave him. The afternoon's meeting with Marmaduke suggested he might keep it as well.

A glance at his phone screen told Julian it was time to move. Peacock Feather Publishing didn't approve of long, boozy lunches for employees on his grade. He thumbed a quick text to Eddie before he moved. Did I leave my keys behind in the rush? Not likely, but another possibility to tick off. Otherwise, I think I've lost the damn things. Sorry. Today just gets better and better.

Julian stood, checked he'd gathered up every last thing of his and left the restaurant, striding out in an effort to walk off some of his jaw-grinding irritation.

Eddie's call caught him just outside the tired Art Deco splendour of Peacock Feather's building. Two modern glass and steel office blocks dwarfed it on either side, both conspiring to make the older stone building look like the interloper.

“Jules! What's this about your keys?” Eddie was as warm as ever. Concern mixed with faint amusement, part of his 'there's a solution to everything' mentality. Never accusing. Never censorious.

With a rush of distant remembered shame, Julian recalled the time as a boy, he'd failed to cook the family's evening meal. He'd come back from school, grabbed the casserole dish out of the fridge and shoved it in the oven, his mind elsewhere. Job done, or so he thought, he charged upstairs and immersed himself in listening to a newly-purchased CD, repeating all the tracks he really liked over and over. Britney Spears? Something like that.

Later, the front door had slammed shut, followed by the sound of his mother's formal shoes clicking rapidly on the uncarpeted stairs. He remembered turning the CD off. A sudden sinking feeling in his guts had been joined by a cold sweat prickling along his scalp. Something was wrong.

His bedroom door swung open without so much as a tap – his mother's usual practice. She hadn't believed in privacy for teenage him. Julian grimaced. Didn't that sound familiar? She'd stood there, dressed still for the office, and harangued him for five minutes solid on his uselessness – he hadn't turned the oven on – before turning on her heel and slamming the door behind her.

There'd been no evening meal that day. Or at least, not what his father would've called one. Julian's nostrils puckered with the ghost smell of burnt, badly-made cheese toasties, his mother visibly seething throughout. There'd never been any question of ordering takeaway. They weren't the sort of people who resorted – his mother's word – to such plebeian lows.

“Jules?” Eddie sounded faintly concerned.

Julian gave himself a mental shake. Which corner of his psyche had that escaped from? “Sorry, babe. My brain decided to spring a childhood memory on me.”

“Ah. One of the better ones?”

A snort escaped Julian. “You make it sound as if I were…I don't know. Oliver Twist?”

“A young Harry Potter, stuffed under the stairs.”

They shared a laugh. Eddie had been the avid fan, not him. Teen Julian, newly certain of his queerness, found the lack of diversity and representation off-putting.

Just one more way he stood out from the general school crowd.

He took a breath. “I think I lost the damn housekeys on the bus this morning.” His gaze moved skywards. “I dropped my jacket under the seat, and pretty much everything else I was holding. The keys must've fallen out. In the chaos, I didn't notice.”

“Great start to your working morning.” Eddie's tone was sympathetic. “You contacted the bus company?”

Julian stared at the handset. Why hadn't he? Too much else swirling around inside his head. “No. Not yet. I didn't leave the damn keys on the kitchen table, did I?”

A huff of thought followed. “Don't think so. Hang on.”

Julian listened to breathing for a few seconds.

“Nope. Just a half-empty mug of instant coffee–”

He visualised Eddie's smirk as the sentence was left hanging. “Smug bastard.” Actually Julian was surprised he'd even bothered to make a drink in the rush.

“There's still a faint scent of cinnamon from those bagels I toasted earlier.”

Julian knew that smirk had broadened. Even so, his irritation melted away. “Fuck you. OK – I'll phone the depot. Otherwise, sorry, babe, we'll have to replace everything.”

“Not necessarily. Were they identifiably ours?”

He frowned. “No, but–”

His mother spent all her adult life worrying that 'people' would take any chance to burgle, ransack, or despoil their home. Not that his childhood home had been anything out of the middle-class ordinary. Teen Julian gradually realised 'people' meant anyone his mother didn't approve of: immigrants, other foreigners, general delinquents. A lost bunch of keys would've been a major catastrophe, warranting an emergency call-out for some lucky locksmith. Had it ever happened? He couldn't remember, a fact which suggested it hadn't.

There was a pause before Eddie answered. “We could modernise the back door lock, yeah? It'd be easier when it comes to giving Tyro his own keys.”

Julian wished with fervour the new lock might materialise before the end of that week. Part of him imagined his mother failing to gain admittance – her confusion, followed by affronted anger. That flash of guilty pleasure swiftly faded at the all-too-likely, barely suppressed row that would ensue.

A look at his phone jolted him into action. “Gotta go, babe. Yeah, fixing the back door'd be great.”

“OK – I'll search for a locksmith later. Love you.”

Julian finished the call and jogged into the entrance hall, conscious he'd not mentioned his mother and her wretched visit. Open and honest.

At three, Julian stood in the doorway of Marmaduke Percy's office as his manager concluded a call. He surreptitiously surveyed the desk, the bookshelves, and the separate meeting table, trying not to catch Percy's eye. Fortunately, Percy was too busy swapping Henley Regatta tales with whoever was on the other line. As a prelude to finishing up, Julian hoped, otherwise his new disposition towards his manager might evaporate.

Yes, the place was a mess. Heaps of paper – Julian wondered if his manager was one of those people who insisted on printing out every email of note – and books piled everywhere. Yet, as he looked closer, it seemed there was some order to the apparent chaos. Apart from the bookshelves behind Percy's desk, the rest were sorted into broad categories: Romance, YA, Thrillers, and some others he couldn't see well enough to label. The odd pile was adorned by a pink sticky note with a name on it. Romance, Julian noted, had a note with Freebies for Beth!! written in an inky scrawl he recognised as Percy's.

OK – so he wasn't a complete tosser. Julian shuffled his own papers, riffling through them to check that he hadn't left anything vital behind. Beth's advice had been good. Without meaning to, a cough escaped. His throat was dry. He stilled, expecting a reaction. A glare maybe? Instead, Percy looked up, gestured him in, and started to make 'Must look you up soon' noises into the phone.

Julian perched on the sole unoccupied chair before consciously making himself sit back and look less like a school-leaver at his first job interview. He wedged his sheaf of papers in between his right thigh and the upholstered seat arm. Having to flex his shoulder made that area tingle with a hint of pain which served as another delicious reminder of Saturday night's activities.

To start the evening off, Eddie had used one of Julian's favourite toys. The whip possessed a fall of deceptively soft tails. Yes, it could be a warm-up tool if they were having one of their infrequent heavier nights. But employed with just the right amount of force – and skill – the whip was quite an experience on its own. That expanding glow of pleasure/pain it induced was heavenly.

What had Tyro been doing? Looking on. With interest. Heat flooded Julian's upper chest. Eddie had ordered Tyro to jack off in Julian's sightline. Their third had been warned against climaxing before given permission to do so, on pain of punishment. Had Tyro managed it? Julian tried to remember. The scene was so hot, he'd started to fly, to soar, earlier than usual.

A cough – not his this time – brought Julian back to his surroundings with a jerk. Marmaduke Percy's raised eyebrows hinted at a question asked, no answer received.

The warmth pooled in Julian's chest threatened to rush into his face and neck. He swallowed and blinked, trying to give the impression of considering his reply, while simultaneously attempting to rewind his short-term memory in search of Percy's opening remark.

What the fuck had he been thinking? Jesus Christ. Some of the blood made it to his face as he scrabbled for something to say. Straight to business? A pleasantry?

He had no idea what his manager had opened with. Julian forced a smile, mentally crossed his fingers and rescued his sheaf of now slightly-crumpled papers. The same betraying twinge as before only deepened the pinkness of his face. He took in a long, calming breath before saying, “Thanks for the heads-up earlier, Marmaduke. I've been able to formulate some ideas and strategies you'll find interesting.”

“Formulate?” Percy repeated, looking faintly amused. “How very managerial of you, Julian. Sophia et al will be pleased.”

The pink returned.

However, Percy leaned back in his seat. “I've also been looking a little more deeply into our world. How it's faring currently. Winners and losers. All that.”

Julian tried not to stare. If someone had asked him last week what he thought of Percy, the answer would've been unprintable. Still, the fact his manager actually worked on occasion didn't make him a great human being, just a less obviously shitty one.

Percy scrabbled through the mounds on his desk before triumphantly producing a couple of printed pages. “Here's proof.”

And he expected what, praise? In his mind, Julian ran through his opening arguments against being given True Crime, snatching glimpses at his own papers, zooming in on the relevant, highlighted points.

He opened his mouth, only to close it again, frustrated, as Percy beat him to it.

“I'm wondering whether True Crime would be such a great fit as I thought earlier–” Although the upper-class drawl remained, Percy regarded Julian with interest. “It's been pointed out that dumping–”

Julian heard the quotation marks. He tried not to smirk. Who the hell had gone into battle on his behalf?

“Dumping,” Percy repeated, “a non-fiction category onto a fiction specialist isn't the best way to proceed. Took a while to convince me. Quite the school Debating Society for a time.”

He'd have to find out who his champion was. Beth? Julian sat straighter, mind finally getting into gear. “That's right. All my industry contacts are on the fiction side. That represents ten years of hard work. Although…the Pride networks do have a broader range of people.” Julian eyed his manager, who was lounging back in his executive swivel chair. Now for one of his counter-suggestions. “I could look at broadening our LGBTQ list. Branch out into memoirs and auto-biographies. Maybe essays and contemporary talking points?”

Percy's eyes narrowed at the mention of talking points. “Nothing too contentious. Can't have the senior management bombarded with email from those GC harridans–”

A pleasant feeling of surprise that his manager even knew of the gender-critical brigade didn't last long.

“And all sides in the trans debate,” Percy continued.

Trans debate? Julian fumed inwardly before venturing, “Trans individuals exist. Always have done. They have the right to live as they wish, without being vilified or legislated against. Their place in society isn't up for debate.” His heartbeat had picked up. He took a couple of slow breaths to calm his system down.

The other man held up both hands. “Julian, you're rather proving my point. Peacock Feather Publishing isn't one of those edgy north London outfits looking to make sales from the next social media storm. We're a mid-size, general publisher with some strong lists and a solid reputation to maintain.”

And how long was that going to last in the current situation? Julian quickly refreshed his memory before placing the papers aside. “I trust you and the management team regard our list of queer titles in that light. I know I do.” He didn't wait for a response. “Recent figures show that against a general trend of slowing sales in fiction, queer book sales are up seven percent. We're in a good position to capitalise on that trend and in fact, our own figures show that we have.”

Percy's eyes opened and closed in a series of slow blinks that appeared to cover up the fact this was news to Julian's manager. Julian recognised it as such because he'd used the same ploy earlier. So much for keeping up with the 'winners and losers'. A voice in his head, which sounded a lot like Eddie, pointed out that one easy way to ensure managers kept abreast of industry developments was to tell them yourself. If nothing else it would show that Julian was doing his job.

Communications. Again.

His manager shifted and leaned forward to peer at the sheets of paper he'd just brandished. Percy cleared his throat. “It appears that Sapphic–” The man's eyes twitched.

Julian wondered if it would've been a full-on roll, aborted only because of his presence.

Percy continued, “Sapphic romance and other genres are on the increase?”

“Yes.” Adrenalin flowed. Not because Julian was scared or nervous now, but more from enthusiasm. He loved that feeling of digging deep and using what he knew to light an equivalent fire in someone else. He took a moment. Maybe that was being optimistic? Certainly, the guy in front of him wasn't a promising candidate. “There's a strong flow of Sapphic titles coming through. Has been for the last twelve months or so. In May and June, we've picked up a couple of great books–”

“A couple? Is that all?” Percy's face radiated dissatisfaction, his mouth pursed.

Definitely not promising. Julian attempted to leach any trace of impatience from his voice. “Yes, two. We were out-bid on another two. It happens. There's a finite amount of money and you've got keep some in reserve for future surprises. Or potential new lists.” He held his breath.

“Hmm.” Percy woke his computer. “I may have almost failed maths GCSE – my pal from school, Tobes Johnson, over at Hatchetts, never shuts up about it – but I can use a spreadsheet. Just about. Let's take a look.”

Later, Julian sat at his desk, waiting for a call to connect. He stared glumly at his jacket. Now dry, and looking slightly less rumpled from having spent a few hours on a hanger, it was still a mess. The lovely leaf green linen was smeared in places with a wash of blackish brown liquid from the bus floor. First stop, the washing machine when he got home. Fingers crossed it came out looking as new. He loved the jacket with so many things, including that day's pale sky blue chinos.

“Jules?” Eddie's voice was as welcome as ever. “How d'it go?”

Julian focussed. “It went well, babe. Surprisingly well, in fact.” His satisfaction was still tinged with embarrassment at how the interview had started. “True Crime is going to be someone else's problem.”

“Yay.”

“It gets better.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Somehow, I managed to convince Percy to allocate more money my way.”

“Jules!”

“I know. Maybe Mondays aren't that bad after all.”

A throaty chuckle followed. “I thought this one started off just fine.”

Julian made sure his huff of breath was audible. He was grinning when he continued, “It's to expand the queer list into non-fiction.” He paused. “Except trans issues. Heaven forbid there's any controversy about.”

“Is he Gender Critical?”

“No. At least, I think not. Hasn't got any discernible interest in gender politics. He just dreads being hauled up in front of the board to explain why a title I'm responsible for has caused our email server to crash.”

“Understandable, I suppose.” Eddie breathed in and let it out slowly. Julian knew it was one of his ways to express disapproval. His voice brightened. “So you're staying?”

“Yeah. It isn't the worst job by far, and I intend to fight our community's corner in every way I can. I've put too many years in to just walk away.” Saying it out loud brought a renewed flood of relief. One part of his life settled. For now, anyway.

“Celebration time!”

Julian glowed. His chinos suddenly felt tight at the crotch. Any celebration usually involved sex. Sometimes a full-on scene. Given it was only the start of the working week, they'd have to restrain themselves. “Love you, babe.”

“You too, Jules. Want me to plan something?”

The issue with his clothing deepened. Julian cleared his throat. “Yes, please.” It still came out breathy.

Eddie chuckled, a deep, rich sound that did nothing to calm Julian's pulse. “It'll be my pleasure.”

Julian batted away a momentary vision of their bedroom, with whatever that evening's choice of toys would be lying on the bedcover, and him, naked, standing at the foot of the bed. He was at work. One of his colleagues could walk past at any moment and ask him a question. He already felt hot and sweaty enough without adding in another dose of embarrassment.

He woke his computer, just so he could refocus on the boring, involved email he'd been in the middle of writing. He swallowed. The heat receded a little.

Another chuckle came from the phone. Lighter this time, less dominant. “You're very quiet, Jules. Everything OK?”

“You know exactly what's the matter with me.” His indignation only elicited more laughter. After a moment, he joined in. “Bastard.” Julian settled. Two more things needed to be said. “Will our celebrations wait 'til I've had a quick drink with Beth? She fought my corner over the True Crime thing and I'd like to thank her.”

“Yeah, course. It's a quick, easy one-pot stew and everything else'll follow on.”

“Also–” A small knot of apprehension formed in Julian's gut.

“Hmm?” As ever, Eddie's tone was encouraging.

“I'd like to mention our plans. For a third, I mean. No names, of course. It's just… Beth's hinted before about having had kind of poly relationships–” Julian left the sentence hanging, not sure, now it came to it, what he actually wanted. He looked around, checking too late to see if anyone was within earshot. There wasn't. He lowered his voice. “I guess I'm excited and scared and hopeful and so, so ready to play–”

“We both are, Jules.”

“You're right, babe. Of course. It's just… I'm almost literally bursting with the news.”

Another chuckle. Sympathetic and thoughtful, this time. “And you'd like to share it with someone from our community?”

“Yeah. I mean, it's not the sort of development I could discuss with my mother.”

“God forbid.” Eddie paused. “It's fine by me, love. Don't forget there may be three of us soon. There'll have to be a general agreement about decision making. What were you saying yesterday?”

“Honest, open communication.” Julian swallowed. “In that light, the other thing I need to get out of the way before our celebration is my mother.”

“Getting your mother out of the way? Now there's a thought.”

Julian's instinctive snigger quickly morphed into throat clearing. “Yeah? Well, she's announced another visitation.” A waiting silence pushed him on. “This weekend.”

“OK.” Eddie's voice came across as carefully neutral.

“We had half a conversation on the bus this morning. I told her we'd finish it when I got home.”

“OK.”

“I know we've got things planned for this weekend, and it's hardly the first time, so I'm going to spell it out to her. She claims she forgot to give us advance warning.”

“You going to wait 'til you get home?”

“Yeah. Not my style to have a public row on the bus. And I think I might need some moral support.”

“I've got you, Jules. Always. You know that.”

“Yeah. Love you, babe.”

The sound of a smoochy kiss close by made Julian swing round.

Beth stood there, tapping one wrist where a watch might've been. “Am I getting my drink or not?” A mischievous smirk took away any sting.

He rolled his eyes at her before returning his attention to the phone. “Eddie?”

“Yeah. You got company?”

“Beth, demanding her reward.”

A huff of laughter. “Well, you'd better not keep her waiting.” Eddie's tone changed. “Don't be late home.”

A shiver of delicious anticipation heated Julian's cheeks. “I won't.”

Putting his phone away, Julian picked up the jacket, folded it, and decided to use it as arm decoration. He smiled at Beth. “Half of lager OK?”

Quarter of an hour later, they sat at a small table in the latest TikTok-hyped cocktail bar. Beth stared in wonder at her passionfruit martini, the rich, warm colour almost glowing in sunlight filtered through shaded panes. A small glass of champagne stood close by, waiting to be added to the mixture. Julian contemplated his rapidly diminishing bank balance and sipped his aniseed sour, its intense blue clashing with Beth's concoction. No alcohol – he wanted to be alert for both the immediate conversation and for the one with his mother to follow. Plus, Eddie wouldn't allow either of them to be in a scene if he thought their judgement impaired.

Julian nodded to himself. So much kink depended on precision and being in tune with your partner. Partners, he corrected himself. Maybe. His imagination flared, getting ready to present a montage of possibilities. He coughed instead.

Beth put down her glass, licking her lips. “Wow. That's quite something.” She topped up the level with the remaining champagne. “I'm gonna make this last.”

“Good.” Julian gave her the side-eye.

“Screw you.” Beth grinned. “And yes, I know how much it cost.”

Julian smiled back and shrugged. “Thanks, Beth. Dunno how this afternoon would've gone without you putting a spanner in Percy's cunning plan.”

“Cunning?”

“Well–”

“I know what you mean.” Beth another sip of her drink and sighed in pleasure. “You're evil, you are.”

Julian blinked. “Sorry?”

“I pick a cocktail almost at random, more to annoy you than anything else, and it's glorious. Manna from heaven.” She rolled her eyes. “There goes my savings account.”

He smirked. “My pleasure.” Julian shifted in his seat, heart rate increasing. “Can I share some news with you?”

“Of course.” Beth's raised eyebrows were more invitation than query.

“You know Eddie and I–” He swallowed, then continued. “We play with other guys?”

“Uh-huh.”

Another gulp. “Well, we think we may've found someone interested in being part of something more permanent.”

“Oh, yeah?” Beth's eyes widened a little. “Poly?”

“Yeah. Well, we hope so.” Heat flooded Julian's face and neck. With his light skin, it would be painfully obvious. He drank more aniseed sour, focussing on the heady aroma of lemongrass, and willed his system to settle down. “You mentioned once you–” Julian cringed at his total inability to speak in complete sentences. He tried again. “You were part of a poly arrangement?”

Beth put her glass on one side and regarded him evenly. “I was.”

Two words. She didn't appear angry or upset by the question. Maybe just waiting to be told what he wanted to know. Why hadn't he planned out the conversation in advance? Julian coughed, discovering his mouth was dry. He swallowed. “Ehm… there's only so much you can get from reading stuff, so–”

His companion was hiding a smile, pressing purple-painted lips together. “Julian, I don't think I've ever heard you so tongue-tied. Take a moment and get your head sorted. I'm happy to answer questions.”

Julian gazed up at the plain painted ceiling with its inset lights. Good advice. A few cycles of circular breathing later and his heart calmed. The fog in his brain dispersed. Was this what was like to be a character in one of his YA books? A small smile emerged. Yep, it was. He took in another deep breath. What did he need to know the most? Clarity followed. He formulated short strings of words, made them into sentences, and went for it. “I'm stoked that we've found a possible third. Eddie is as well. It's so exciting. Jesus, I've spent most of time since the weekend thinking of nothing else. But–” His fingers had somehow wrapped themselves into a knot. “It's fucking terrifying as well.”

Beth nodded encouragement.

“What if the other two hit it off, but I don't so much? Not Eddie leaving me – we've already agreed our relationship overrides everything else. It'd be more like an imbalance? A triangle with three unequal sides.” He paused. “A situation where I could fuck things up. Cause trouble, I guess.”

“You'd be an equal partner in all this?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Julian's indignation faded quickly as the implication hit. “Ah. So I have as much right as the other two to end things.”

“Or demand you all seek counselling. Mediation. Whatever.” Beth looked straight at Julian. “Don't stay in a poly arrangement simply because you're scared of rocking the boat.”

Honest, open communication.

Beth slurped from her drink with an expression close to ecstasy. “Sorry. Couldn't leave it sitting there all neglected.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “Another?”

“God, no. Can't have you and Eddie out on the street cos you're unable to pay the mortgage.” She blew him a kiss. “Seriously though, I stayed in my first poly set-up long after I should've called it quits.” A half-shrug followed. “I was still at uni, impressionable, and beyond excited at the hedonism of being asked.”

He resisted the urge to probe for details. None of his business.

Beth continued, “TL:DR – it became blindingly obvious I wasn't an equal participant and, despite regular supposedly all-guards-down chats, the others had convos in my absence. Not the 'how was your day' kind of shit.” Her mouth twisted. The memory evidently still hurt. “Things that impacted me. Us. Living arrangements, date nights, finances – they were all presented to me as stuff to say 'yes' to. It was dressed up better, but that's what it came down to.” She sighed. “And, of course, when it finally got too much, I lost my rag. Full-on screamfest. Tragedy on a Euripidean scale.” Beth was a classics graduate. “Endless, endless recriminations all round.”

Julian found it difficult to imagine Beth as a raging, weeping victim. There again, anybody could be pushed too hard. A cautionary tale indeed. “Thanks, Beth. That sounds beyond grim.”

“I learnt fast.” A shrug was followed by a pained smile. “So, Auntie Beth says don't hang around. Get the problem out into the open. Have an honest discussion. Don't sugarcoat stuff, but keep it civil. There may be a way back. And if whatever's wrong with the relationship can't be fixed, leave.”

They both sat for close on a minute in silence, staring into their respective near-empty glasses. It dawned on Julian he'd been spouting the mantra of honest, open communication without really accepting how painful it might get. He thought of that evening's show-down with his mother. Was he prepared for where that might lead? His guts tightened. At least Eddie would be there with him.

That was for later. Julian shook himself, drained the little left of his drink, and coughed meaningfully.

Beth twitched. Returning from wherever she'd been mentally, she gave him a rueful smile. “Hasn't this been fun?”

“The drinks were.” There was a short pause. “Beth, I–”

“Julian Palmer, if you don't shut the fuck up with the thanks, I'll make you buy me this cocktail once a day for eternity.”

He snorted. “Eternity?” Her scowl faded slowly in the face of his amusement. “I think even you'd tire of it eventually. Yeah?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Beth let out a long breath and then seemed to haul herself out of her memories. “Good luck with the third. If it doesn't work out, keep trying. Or not. Maybe you and Eddie'll decide playing's best.” She looked straight at Julian. “Don't try to fit in with someone else's narrative unless you're sure. Go with what suits you.”

They stood. Julian compulsively checked he'd got everything, then closed with Beth to exchange air kisses. He seized the chance to whisper, “Thanks again, Beth,” before she pushed him away, a mock glower darkening her face.

On the bus home, Julian tried to plan out the continuation of the row with his mother. Having a drink with Beth meant he'd missed the worse of the rush hour. He had a seat to himself. Luxury. It didn't prevent his ears from being assaulted by numerous loud voices having conversations, tinny music from a phone – rap wasn't his thing – and an over-tired toddler having a meltdown in the buggy area.

A headache threatened. It had been quite some day and it wasn't over yet. Julian pivoted his neck from side to side and then flexed both shoulders. The tightness relented a little. He took several gulps of water from his bottle and let the coolness seep down into his core.

In the knowledge he was putting off the inevitable, Julian took out his phone and sent Eddie a message. On bus. Won't be too long. He topped it off with a crossed fingers emoji.

An answer appeared seconds later. Great. Won't start the food til you're here. Just finished myself. Time for some plans... A miniature red devil's face grinned up at him, followed by a bed, a peach, and an aubergine. Julian's face heated, the flush seeping down to his crotch. Eddie could be a complete bastard sometimes, though Julian admitted his own imagination was as much to blame.

The bus had stopped. A young, slim Black guy got on. Something about the way he moved and held himself pinged Julian's gaydar. Without meaning to, he watched as the young man said something to the driver though the protective screen. The conversation dragged on. In Julian's experience, that often spelt trouble. No cash. Not enough cash. Lost ticket or phone. All excuses worthy of a haggle with the driver in the hope of a free ride.

Instead, after a longer, unheard explanation or comment from the driver, the other guy couldn't contain his frustration any longer. He slapped his bank card against the reader, then as the ticket appeared, he exclaimed, “Why didn't you fuckin' say so at the start?” He snatched the ticket. “Waste my fuckin' time!” he snarled and stomped off to the upper deck.

All of which brought Julian back to the encounter with his mother, and the question of being open, honest and, he now added, clear. Jesus, how long had it been since either of them had achieved any of those in a mutual conversation? He stared glumly into the middle distance.

His parents supported him financially while he was at university. More for their benefit than his in some ways – a good reputation was everything. Julian had revelled in exploring as many life opportunities as London offered while guiltily taking their money. Emotional blackmail payments, one of his friends had described the arrangement. Julian was expected back home in between terms and for the summer break. Just him. No-one else. Not that he'd been in the habit of telling his parents anything about his circle of friends at uni.

He turned down his father's grudging offer of work over the summer breaks. The idea of spending even more time in his vicinity was insufferable. Plus, Julian had zero interest in tech or its uses in a business arena. Instead, he temped, enjoying the constantly-changing office vistas and their inhabitants. His father muttered darkly about it being women's work.

Although Julian had never said anything either way, he guessed his parents labelled him privately as probably gay. Queer. Or, to use his father's favourite description, a poofter. His father treated him with unmuted contempt which regularly threatened to flare into rage.

Term time was Julian's opportunity to dress with the colours and flamboyance to suit his personality. Although he toned it down during the vacs, the drab student uniform of jeans and hoodies wasn't for him.

One summer's evening, he came downstairs dressed in his favourite pink textured jacket and white trousers, on his way out to visit friends. A birthday celebration merited Julian appearing in his full splendour. Concentrating on getting his hair to behave, he failed to notice his father striding from kitchen to lounge until they nearly collided in the hallway. Julian froze. The other man stared at him, face suffusing a brick red. His eyes started to bulge. Julian opened his mouth to say something. What, he had no idea.

His mother called through the partly-open lounge door that News at 10 was starting. The latest from Afghanistan, plus the continuing fallout from the global financial crash. Julian held still.

The other man leaned in close. “If I'd so much as thought of going outside looking like that, my own father would've whipped the hide off me.” Spittle showered Julian's cheeks. Every muscle kept him rigid. Fight or flight.

Seeming to come from far away, his mother called again. A reminder that his father was going to miss important financial news if he didn't come now. Swearing under his breath, the older man turned, indecision blunting his anger. Julian seized the chance to squeeze past and make it out the front door before his father realised.

Had that made him a sell-out? Even now, Julian wasn't sure. Every queer person negotiated their own path to self-determination. At uni, as far away as it was feasible to be from home, he learned what it was to be gay. To not be straight. To live life on his terms. That joy, that self-knowledge had to be submerged during the holidays. Not completely. As he knew from experience, it formed a series of icebergs that threatened to wreck many a family encounter.

Until, once, it succeeded only too well.

“You never tell us about your friends, darling.” At breakfast one Saturday, his mother patted Julian's hand. “You're in your final year. I feel I know as little about your life at university as when you started.” Hidden behind a partially-folded copy of the Telegraph, his father grunted. He continued munching loudly on the plate of fried egg, sausage, bacon, and bread he insisted on consuming every weekend.

Julian was nursing a hangover of entirely avoidable proportions after a much-needed Friday night out at the closest queer bar. A detour afterwards to spend a couple of hours with a quirky, amusing, and – as it turned out – well-hung Scottish guy had been unexpected. And glorious. He shifted on the seat, in search of fewer reminders from his backside, and shrugged.

“It's just I never know what to say to Fiona at work, or Amy Buchanan, when she catches me at the shops.” His mother smiled at him. “You remember Amy. She tells me ever so much about Lily and her life at Cambridge. I feel as though I'm almost part of the family.” She tried to ignore a snort of derision that erupted from behind the wall of newsprint.

Under the fatigue and throbbing head, Julian's stomach roiled with a spurt of incipient rage. He forced a mug of black, sugared coffee to his lips and took a small, reluctant gulp. “You could always start by telling them I'm gay.” His voice came out compressed. Too tight. “Or queer. Either'll do.”

His mother laughed, a bright, false sound.

Their gazes turned to the head of the table. Julian had the impression of a geyser building up pressure. Hidden to some degree, maybe only simmering, but still dangerous. He watched fingers turn a page of the folded newspaper, stiff and impatient, threatening to rip the sheet when it didn't do as they commanded.

“Why not?” Julian pressed on. “It'll be a great intro to how much time I spend acting, rather than studying.” Essays, reading, and revision got done when needed. He wasn't stupid. Acting was never going to be a path to greatness for him, or even a reliable source of income. He lacked the self-belief, the drive.

That morning, it served as a goad.

His mother frowned. “You did so well in your first and second year exams.” She brightened. “You've never really mentioned your acting before. You must've made all kinds of friends there. In fact–” A smile, a real one, appeared. “Amy's ever so artistic. I'm sure she'd love to hear about your roles, and the productions, and the people you work with. Who knows, maybe one of them will go on to win an Oscar?”

Tired, hungover, and well-fucked, Julian hadn't loaded any of the usual filters he employed around his parents. Some days, it was a scramble to leash in his temper. Now, at that breakfast table, he suddenly couldn't give a toss. “Yeah? Well, my last part was the title role in Oscar Wilde's Salome.”

He let that sink in.

His mother's expression turned puzzled. “Isn't that a role for–”

“A woman? Yeah – usually. The director, Sam Wells, persuaded me a play by a seminal queer author deserved a genderqueer lead. It's been done before. Kinda fucks with your head. The 'Dance of the seven veils' takes on a whole different feel when there are no boobs on display.” He raised an eyebrow.

Face draining of colour, her mouth gaped. “You… you didn't… expose yourself? Julian!”

Though he kept his eyes on his mother, Julian knew the Telegraph had been lowered at the other end of the table. Pressured silence replaced sounds of eating. The geyser was ramping up. Normally, if he'd taken things that far, Julian backed down. Ruffled feelings were smoothed over with help from his mother.

This time was different. His finals were in a couple of weeks. As one door closed, another would open. Hopefully it would lead to a life where he could be himself all the time. Julian smiled, giving his mother a lop-sided smirk. “God – of course not. It's infinitely more sexy and disturbing to have only the outline visible. To hint. To fuck with people's assumptions.” He upped his volume a little. “At the end of run party, Sam gave a speech. He said how much he enjoyed directing me. In his opinion, I was an actor to watch.”

His mother brightened, obviously consigning the tidbits to memory. The geyser simmered.

“Later–” Julian felt muscles tense. He gulped, then words poured out. “We fucked. In one of the dressing rooms.” He purposefully focussed on his half-empty mug. “You might say he directed me there as well. He was marvellous. Inspirational. And we had another full house.” He looked up, straight at his mother. “This time, some of the audience joined in.”

He had a fraction of a second to enjoy her expression of frozen disgust and horror before the table lurched. His mug disgorged a small wave of murky brown liquid. Julian, out of habit, caught the mug, steadied it, and stared blankly at the spreading stain, waiting for the explosion.

“What did you just say?”

The bellow made Julian flinch. He looked up.

His father, red faced and breathing hard, was half out of his seat. “Do you dare to insult your mother with this filth? You're a whore. A disgusting pansy. A degenerate.” The volume increased. “A total disgrace to our name.” He was fighting to get the chair away from the table. To free himself. Rage made him clumsy.

Julian stood, one hand clutching the table's edge. He didn't know what to do. The sound of his heart hammering in his ears held everything else at bay. He'd never thought he'd get this far. Never thought to make a plan.

With a suppressed howl, the other man shoved his chair hard against the wall. He looked murderous.

A hand grabbed Julian's arm, turned him, and pushed him towards the door. His mother hissed after him, “I'll deal with your father. Get out of here. Now.”

Another shove followed. Julian staggered upstairs, grabbed whatever came to hand and was out on the front step before his brain caught up.

The bus braked suddenly. Its horn blared. Julian surfaced from his memories in a short-lived panic. He clutched at his bag, his jacket, before settling back to stare at passing over-familiar surroundings. Unkempt 1930s semis shared space with even more rundown Victorian red brick town houses, now multi-occupancy or hosting Rumanian or Polish general stores.

He'd lived there when working his first job as a bookseller at Waterstone's. Freedom. Self-determination. And he'd never felt so alone. So without a support network. The few, sporadic communications from his mother had soon dried up when he didn't reply. New city. New job. New life.

He put effort into making friends and navigating the local queer scene. A sideways move into publishing followed. Out of the blue, his mother texted with news of his father's death from a heart attack. She couldn't cope with sorting out his affairs and pleaded with Julian for assistance. Julian recalled clearly the burning temptation to tell her to fuck off. Maybe he should've done. Instead, he allowed himself to be swayed by her emotional blackmail, the money that had gone towards his education, and the memory of her putting herself between him and his father on that final, fateful Saturday morning.

Which explained why he was struggling to rein her in. Julian sighed. He needed to be thinking about now. Not then.

At home, in the welcoming, brightly-painted kitchen that looked out onto their faintly scruffy back garden, Julian scraped the last of the smoky, peppery tomato sauce from the plate onto his fork. A Spanish pork and butterbean stew with paprika. One of his favourites. Another plus to this most mixed of Mondays.

From the other side of the table, Eddie watched. His own plate had yet to be cleared. “Looks as though you needed that.”

Julian sat back. “You have no idea.” He smiled ruefully at his husband. “Well, you do actually. Kinda.”

“You've had a stressful day, Jules–”

“Which isn't over yet, babe.” Julian rubbed his eyes. How could one conversation overshadow everything else?

“OK?” Eddie covered one of Julian's hands with his and gave it a squeeze. “Decided on your approach?”

Lawyers and their strategies. Julian fought the urge to laugh. Or cry. He'd left the bus with no more of a plan to deal with his mother than when he got on. Open and honest. How many times had he said that to himself during the day? He swallowed. “I've no more idea of how this conversation's going to go than I did when I last spoke to you.”

Eddie didn't reply. Instead, he resumed eating, still mostly watching Julian, and waited.

No hints then. Julian rubbed his forehead and tried to order his thoughts out loud. “I don't want to lose her completely. For all she regularly makes me want to scream, she's my only close relative.” He looked up at the ceiling for a second or two. “I'm not one of those people for whom found family is everything.” Eddie had family. He got on well with his siblings but much less so with his parents. “I just want my mother to listen to me. To respect my requests. To treat me like a fucking adult for a change.”

Eddie added, “To let you live your own life?”

“Exactly!” A pause followed. Julian scrabbled to get more thoughts into order. “I guess… that means I'll have to… reset our relationship?”

“Uh-huh.” His husband spoke through a mouthful of food. He was catching up quickly.

“So… however grateful I might be for what happened in the past, that doesn't mean she gets to dictate or interfere with my life now.” He smiled at Eddie. “Our lives.”

“Our and Tyro's lives, don't forget.” Eddie cocked his head and returned the smile. “Don't know about you, but I'm increasingly confident we'll work something out with him.”

“Yeah?” Despite his jitters, Julian felt a familiar flush of heat.

“Yeah.” Eddie finished his glass of water. “Did I tell you I discovered Tyro writes horror shorts?”

Brain threatening to enter work mode, Julian startled. “What? Where? Is he published?”

His husband grinned back at him. “And you accuse me of never switching off.”

Julian gave him the finger. “Answer the questions.”

“All I know is I came across a couple of stories of his today. They were on that site I showed you last week.”

“Any good?” That spark of professional curiosity and excitement temporarily overrode Julian's fears about the conversation to come.

“I enjoyed them. They're… occultish. Dark. Tense. One story scared the shit out of me.” An eyebrow lifted. “Not advised before going to sleep.”

“That'll be a pass from me then.” Genuine horror, explorations of the darker parts of the human psyche, weren't Julian's thing at all. Cinematic pretend comedy horror was something else entirely. He swallowed. “D'you really think it'll work with Tyro?”

“Yes – I think there's a good chance. We connect on a number of levels.” He shrugged. “Nothing's certain. Don't forget we've agreed on our red lines. Tyro may well have his own.” A slight smile covered up some of Eddie's concern. “You still thinking about Beth and her modern-day Greek drama?”

“Yeah.” The fact a poly relationship could spontaneously combust like hers did scared him.

Eddie left his mostly-empty plate to take up position behind Julian's seat. Julian tipped his face up to receive an upside-down kiss on the lips. They both tasted of garlic and tomato, though Julian thought Eddie might also get a hint of aniseed from his earlier cocktail.

His husband perched on the edge of the table. “Jules, any of us'll be able to call time on our arrangement. We, as a couple, could do so as well. It might all end naturally.” Another shrug. “We've yet to talk this through fully, but I imagine there'll be a period of transition. How long it'll be will depend on a number of things. It could all fall apart then.”

Julian let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding in. “And here I am, treating the whole thing as if it's a jail sentence without parole.” The rational part of his mind knew this wasn't true but it seemed to have clocked out of work when Julian had. “Sorry, babe.”

Eddie gave one of his hands a squeeze. “You're nervous. I'm nervous. It's new. Scary. And even if everything falls into place perfectly, it'll still be OK to have apprehensions.”

Mouth quirking, Julian replied, “Something else to be talked out.”

“Yeah.” Eddie gave a snort of wry amusement. “Something else to be talked out. I wonder if we'll have a life outside of all the full and frank discussions.”

They both laughed, Julian's tinged with relief. As ever, his husband grounded him. Julian pushed his seat away from the table. “OK. This seems as good a point as any to make that phone call.” No need to elaborate on which phone call.

Eddie stood up from the table and pulled him into a hug. “I'll be here when you're done.” He pulled away slightly, before continuing, tone teasing, “Meanwhile I've things to get ready upstairs.”

Julian croaked, “What things?” His chinos felt tight again. He'd kinda forgotten about the second-half of their celebration.

A darkly-amused stare was his only answer.

He swallowed hard. Trust Eddie to put that thought into his head right before something else important had to be done. Bastard.

Julian sat in the lesser used of their two front rooms and stared at his phone. Like its twin next-door, their Arts and Crafts semi possessed a well-lit room on either side of the front door. One was their lounge; this one served as a dining room / home working space. The evening sun created a golden glow against the back wall. He was perched on one of the upright dining chairs, its thinly-padded cushion reminding Julian of the weekend's activities.

He took a moment or two to look around. The room gave off the unloved feel of a spare space, lacking a regular occupation. Its walls bore an insipid shade of not-quite-white left by the previous owner. His mother approved. She detested the garish – her word – colours they'd used in kitchen and elsewhere. The carpet was another relic. Julian considered its oatmeal fleck as another non-colour, begging to be changed.

Any thoughts about redecoration might have to wait though. If Tyro joined them on anything like a full-time basis, he'd need a space of his own. Multi-purpose perhaps, but with his input. His personality.

Julian hoped their proposed third wasn't a fan of bland. Would that be a reason to call everything off? He shifted, crossing, then uncrossing his legs, aware he was stalling. Letting out a long breath, he picked up the phone. Better to get it done.

His mother answered swiftly. “Good evening, Julian. How was your day?” Her voice sounded measured. Controlled. No great warmth, though that was nothing new.

“It wasn't too bad in the end. Some ups; some downs.” He wasn't going to get drawn into detail. “Sorry again for snapping at you earlier, Mum.” He heard his mother draw in air and hurried on before she could speak. “My unintended rudeness doesn't alter the fact that you did overstep the mark.” Julian managed to bite back an observation it was hardly for the first time. Keep it civil. “As I said, Eddie and I have a lot of things going on in our life. Things entirely separate from the relationship you and I have and which I think are just as important.”

“How can you possibly say that?” The wounded indignation made Julian's eyes roll. His mother continued, “The bond between mother and son is special.”

His temper flexed. It would be so easy to give her chapter and verse on their less-than-special relationship. Julian tamped it down. “I value our relationship, Mum.” He hurried on before a part of his brain started calculating its actual worth. “But I'm married. Have been for five years. Eddie's the main person in my life now. Just as Dad was in yours.”

“But–”

Julian ploughed on. “Our existence as a–” He nearly stumbled over the next word. “Couple is what drives our decisions.”

One day, he knew the word 'throuple' would escape – assuming things worked out. That would be another, possibly even more painful conversation with his mother. His insides cringed at the thought of explaining their possible romantic and living arrangements. Not because he was ashamed or anything, but just that he still found talking about love, sex, and relationships with anyone other than Eddie tricky. Witness the earlier conversation with Beth. He would have to try harder. Eddie couldn't remain the winged messenger between him and Tyro forever. Plus, if his mother continued to visit them after this phone call, the change to their living arrangements would be obvious–

Julian realised he'd missed his mother's reply. An expectant silence hung between them. He suspected whatever she'd said hadn't been earthshattering. Another complaint, most likely.

He decided to continue with his thread. “Eddie consults me whenever one of his siblings wants to visit. We decide which dates would be best for us and then Eddie talks it over with them. We decide when. Not them. Not you.” Julian noted his voice was getting tighter, its pitch rising a little.

He held the phone further away for a moment and took a long breath in up his nose before letting it out through his mouth. If he managed to finish saying everything he needed to without losing his temper, it would be a miracle.

His mother sniffed. “I've already apologised for not giving you the kind of notice I normally would. It was a silly error on my part.”

Julian rubbed at a spot in between his eyebrows, pressing hard. “And yet, you still didn't think to ask us–” He swallowed. “To ask us whether this coming weekend was convenient. This isn't some Victorian novel, Mum, where a visitor, any visitor, is welcomed with open arms as a distraction from soul-crushing boredom. Eddie and I both work full-time. Our free time is precious. There're lots of things we'd like to fit in. You're one of them, but we still get to choose when that happens.”

The silence had a strained, upset quality. Julian made himself close his mouth. His mother had to agree, or at least, accept, what he'd just said before they could move on.

“The train tickets are already booked. You know how difficult it is to get a refund.”

For fuck's sake. Julian's impulse was to snap back. He hesitated, second-guessing himself, and decided to go with the flow. “Well, that's even more of a reason to ask us first whether the dates are suitable. Yeah?” That edge in his voice was getting sharper. “Ask us first, Mum. It isn't difficult.” Was it really so hard to understand?

“So you don't want me to visit?”

“Not this weekend, no.” Keep it civil, Julian repeated to himself. “We've other plans that can't be changed.” He moved the phone to his other hand, flexing fingers that had gripped the metal case like a clamp. “How about next month? The first weekend's good for us.”

“Err–”

He faintly heard the pages of her paper diary being flicked through.

“No, that doesn't suit me. I've a hair appointment booked on Saturday morning and Amy Buchanan's coming round for lunch.”

She of the perfect mother, daughter relationship. Julian felt his back teeth grinding. Holding onto the shreds of his temper, he made another suggestion.

Again, his mother turned it down. “I'm sorry, darling, but that's just not possible. That's why I chose this weekend to visit.”

“So why didn't you ask us first?” His volume rose and he didn't give a damn. “Why didn't you employ any fucking intelligence before yet again presenting us with a fait accompli? Jesus Christ! We've talked about this before. Many times. And still you act as though I'm a fucking teenager, with no privacy, no rights, and certainly, no respect.” Julian sucked in a breath, aware his face felt on fire. “It stops here. This minute. If you can't be arsed with using common courtesy or to treat me like an adult, then we're done. You hear me? We're finished.”

A ringing silence from the phone competed with a buzzing in his ears.

Looking up, Julian spotted Eddie standing in the doorway. He looked concerned, raised eyebrows asking a silent question. Belatedly, Julian realised if he hadn't actually been shouting, he'd come pretty close. In reply, he shrugged and shook his head.

Eddie closed the distance between them and whispered, “I'll be in the kitchen when you're done. Everything's ready.”

God, he could hardly wait. Julian smiled his thanks, watching his husband as he left the room. OK – now what? He decided, having delivered the ultimatum, he could soften the blow a little by discussing what their relationship might be if his mother admitted her errors. But first, he couldn't resist another jab. She was still on the line – laboured, angry breathing in place of anything spoken. “Mum, if visiting me is so important to you, I wonder why you haven't sold that house you're rattling around in and moved closer.” Be careful what you wish for, part of his brain chided.

“Julian, I don't know how you can speak to me like this,” she said finally. Her voice sounded clotted. “I've only ever wanted the best for you.” Julian nearly choked on his own spit in the effort to swallow an incredulous bark of not-laughter. She continued, “Who stood between you and your father on that Saturday when you–” Words were evidently failing her. “When you–”

“When I finally had the balls to come out, and he showed exactly what kind of a homophobic bigot he was?”

“Don't talk about your father like that.”

“I'll talk about him any way I choose,” Julian snapped. “Mum, just because one time you actually stood up for me against him, doesn't somehow excuse everything else. As a kid, you ignored me except when I threatened your precious reputation. Or, miracle of miracles, I did something which you could crow about to your so-called friends.” Again, his volume rose. “You never, ever simply celebrated my achievements. GCSEs, passing my driving test, graduation, even winning that stupid fashion parade, they all became fodder to feed to your fucking mates. I loathed every single minute I lived there.” He sucked in a breath, having the sense of deep-seated pus finally being drained.

A snarky voice at the back of his head muttered, If it was so awful, why didn't you bugger off at the first opportunity? Julian ignored it. Sessions with a counsellor had mostly got him to the stage of accepting that teen him had been indecisive, scared of rocking the boat. Maybe even a coward.

Until he wasn't.

A stunned silence greeted his outburst. Were those tears he could hear being sniffed back?

Julian gathered himself and tried to moderate his voice. “If you continue to visit us here, it'll be because I want it. Not you. Me. Should you wish to visit over the next month or two, you know the dates Eddie and I are available. If you'd prefer a time-out to think things over, Mum, that's fine, but my position won't change. I'm not going to suddenly welcome you with open arms, showering kisses, cos that's not how we are. It's not how we've ever been. If you're willing to accept the reality of our situation, then, I imagine, we'll be OK.”

His mother's voice, when it resurfaced at last, sounded diminished. Quashed. Part of him was glad. “I never realised you felt that way, Julian. Your father and I worked tirelessly to give you the best chance in life.”

“Except for allowing me to be myself. That was a pretty big fail.”

“Your father… your father was a–”

“Don't you dare say he was a difficult man. He was a dyed-in-the-wool bigot and you know it.”

“I think we both didn't keep up with the times, perhaps.”

“Accepting your son's gay isn't a fad. It isn't some Gen Z woke shit. It's basic, common humanity.”

“Yes, I think I see that now.” His mother's voice sounded… humbled?

Hallelujah. Maybe. Julian kept silent.

“I'm sure I can re-arrange with Amy Buchanan and my hair appointment's quite early–”

He resisted the bait of the hanging sentence.

“If that weekend's still OK with you?”

“I'll have to double-check with Eddie. Let you know tomorrow.” Defer the reward.

“Of course, darling. We'll speak soon.”

“Bye, Mum.”

“Bye.”

“I can't stop shaking.” Julian flopped onto the closest seat in the kitchen. He hunched over, willing his stomach to settle down.

Eddie quietly placed a steaming mug of tea on the table. “Take your time.” He dragged another chair close and sat, resting the palm of one hand on Julian's back, gently rubbing circles.

Julian sniffed hard. Was this how personal victories usually felt?

He recalled sitting, shivering, in a bus shelter, random plastic carrier bags and half-stuffed items of luggage at his feet. That Saturday morning had been gloriously sunny – an English summer's day at its best – but his overwhelming sense memory was of being so cold he didn't know what to do with himself. And the tears oozing down his face. Another victory which hadn't felt like it at the time.

It had taken what felt like hours for Julian to remember he had a phone. Friends with praise, sympathy, and more practical offers of transport, food, and accommodation followed.

He took a deeper, slower breath and tried to ignore the final dregs of adrenalin still whizzing around inside him.

Parts of the conversation with his mother played on a loop inside his head, swirling in and out of his consciousness. One moment, he blotted it out; the next, there it was again, loud and clear. Those bloody train tickets; his 'Ask us first' and 'We decide'; Amy Buchanan; his mother's 'It was a silly error'.

Eddie peered at him. “You OK? Try the tea – it should help.”

Julian sought to get a grip. “Babe, we should be upstairs. You've–”

“Jules,” Eddie's voice, while still quiet, had that edge that always gave him the shivers. “You're not going anywhere until you've drunk that tea. Then we'll reassess. It doesn't have to be tonight. That part of our celebration can easily wait.”

Eddie – always looking out for him.

He nearly spat the first gulp of tea out onto the floor. “Jesus! How many bloody spoonfuls of sugar have you put in this?” With difficulty, he swallowed another mouthful, aware it was meant to be good for him, and maybe his only ticket to any fun in their bedroom.

Eddie didn't bother hiding a smirk. “Three? Maybe, four. I wasn't counting.”

“So, basically, Type 2 diabetes in a mug.” Despite his grumbling, warmth slowly spread out from Julian's belly. He sat up and met Eddie's gaze.

“Wanna talk?”

Did he? No. But his husband deserved more than that. Open and honest. Julian rubbed his forehead, where the tension headache still lurked. “Mum's agreed to visit only when we're free and only when we want her to.”

Eddie nodded his approval. “Victory.” The hand which had been stroking Julian's back was now loosely cupping the back of his neck. “Well done you. From the little I heard, it didn't sound easy.”

“It wasn't.” He drank more of the foul tea, momentarily squeezing his eyes closed in disgust. “But I got said all kinds of stuff that needed to be heard. Stuff that has spent the last fifteen years festering inside me. That was good.”

Julian managed to actually lean back in his seat. To project a semblance of control.

Eddie leant over and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. “I'm so proud of you. Sounds as though you achieved pretty much everything you set out to do.”

“Yeah.” Part of Julian's brain mentally ticked off the mini-victories that made up the whole. He'd succeeded in re-setting his relationship with his mother, got her agreement on several fundamental points, and done so without having to alienate her totally. “Yeah,” he repeated. “Go me.” The first smile in some time elbowed its way to the front. “We'll have to work on keeping her in line.”

His husband shrugged. “The agreement's been made. That was the really hard part.” He glanced across to the kettle and their bright yellow patterned teapot. “Refill?”

“Not bloody likely!” Julian made a show of emptying the mug, before pushing it away. Revolting though the concoction had been, he felt more himself. He held out one hand. No shakes. No trembling. Bone-deep weariness was taking its place. Tiredness without the relaxation necessary for sleep.

“So–” Eddie was gazing at him. “How's the patient now?”

“In need of another of your remedies. One that's more fun.”

“Uh-huh?” Eddie's smile turned more wicked. “Sure?”

“Absolutely.” Julian moved to sprawl more in the seat, making sure his growing arousal was on display. “I want you, babe. I want to experience the whole whatever it is you've got planned upstairs.”

“OK. You know I'll call a halt without hesitation if–”

“Yes, babe. That's why I'm sure. You always look after me.” Julian pulled his husband closer and kissed him. Every second their kiss lasted, the weariness faded into the background. He pulled away reluctantly. “I'd like this Monday, this most extraordinary of Mondays, to end the way it started.”

Eddie's reddened lips quirked. “Is that the getting soaked part, or you sprinting for the bus?”

“Neither!” Julian's eyes narrowed.

“Ah,” Eddie's voice brightened with mock-realisation. “You meant earlier. Well, then.” He stood. That indefinable something reinforced his posture which told Julian the scene had started. “You've ten minutes to get ready and into position, Jules. No detours. No second-guessing.”

Julian paused to nod and then ran for the stairs, weariness forgotten, very much like he'd done to catch the bus that morning.