Kissing the Dragon - 12. Tennis Tandoori

That evening, I step out from the main building to witness Kit Hansen already changed and standing heroic on the floodlit tennis court, gracefully swiping his metallic blue tennis racquet at imaginary tennis balls. Plain white shorts and socks accentuate the bronzed skin of his legs. Curly golden hair, caught in the stark light, glints from his muscular thighs and calves. Sensibly he has donned a heavy track suit top to guard against the chill weather, something I wish I had done the moment I am buffeted by icy crosswinds. Tiny heaps of snow have collected in the corners of the court, the one remaining trace of the weekend’s heavy fall.

Beyond the next court, bouncing against the metallic railings, I spy a couple of teenaged girls in white earmuffs and pink padded jackets chatting and sporadically turning his way. Their topic of conversation is not difficult to imagine. As I open the gate and approach, he spots me and raises his racquet in salute.

“Hey Colin,” he calls out, that disarming smile lighting his face. “How’re you doing?”

“Been better. So I hope you’re ready to do battle.”

His grin transforms at my jibe, as he pulls a lime green ball from the pocket of his shorts and in one flawless movement, smashes it across the net. I think he might be ready.

As anticipated, he is a natural. Agility defines him, his body covering the court effortlessly. Strange really, being around six one and long limbed, he still moves with effortless grace if not speed, like a dancer. Unfortunately for me, he also serves with the strength and precision of a pro. Bearing in mind his advantage, I imagine he will go easy on me but he plays to his full ability. I like him for that. He is a net player, using his height to block my returns from as close to the net as he can dare. Whenever he walks casually back to the baseline to serve—which turns out to be quite often—I cannot help but focus on that easy gait, long muscular legs and the crease of his perfectly rounded backside. Add to that the way he grabs one side of his groin to hitch up his already tight shorts each time he readies to bounce the ball for a serve, and it is any wonder I return a single shot.

Fortunately, after being down by five games to zero in the first set, my old tennis instincts reawaken. Remembering my deceptively sliced backhand and topspin passing shots helps my game. Soon I begin to anticipate the placement of his shots and move at the moment he makes contact with the ball. Cycling every day means my legs are strong enough to cover the court fluidly, tirelessly, without too much effort. Using drop shots at the net to prey on of his lack of speed from the baseline, I also avoid lobs which only play to his height and strength advantage. For the first time, I notice his serene expression slip and a fierce resolve harden his brow, a transition I find incredibly hot. After tripping and falling on my face—literally—diving for a drop shot and scraping skin off my cheek and hand, I lose the first set by a very respectable six games to two. Like the gentleman that he is, he stops the game then to inspect the damage but with my old instincts back I insist we forge on. Forty five minutes later, and after losing all three sets, I concede the match. I can tell that he has not been short-changed, has been given a decent workout on the court, his golden thatch dishevelled or stuck to his forehead, and his usual pale complexion now strikingly rouged.

“You’re darn good,” he says, coming to the net and holding out his hand as though we are in the finals at Wimbledon. As ever he has his disarming grin and a twinkle in his eyes as he scans the wound on my cheek. I shake his hand and return the smile. His palm is slightly moist and as we shake, he massages his thumb into the soft flesh between my thumb and forefinger.

“But not quite good enough, it would appear.”

“I dunno. You got an interesting style. Less technique, more instinct,” he says, as we amble back to the clubhouse, our sports bags in hand. While mine is tucked away, he still holds onto his racquet. “Couple of rematches and you’ll have all my moves figured out.”

“Couple of rematches and you will have changed your game-plan. I play like a maverick. Always have done. And for the record, I’ve rather enjoyed studying your moves.”

In the quiet that follows, I realise the unintentional double-meaning in my response, and turn to see him staring ahead, grinning even more broadly than usual.

“I meant your—um—your technique. Your flawless smash, your fatal drop shot…”

“It’s okay, Colin,” he chuckles, as we climb the few steps to the men’s changing rooms. At the top, he stops to hold the door open for me. “No need to explain. For the record, I enjoyed watching yours, too.”

Waiting for him inside the door, I turn and notice his gaze has wandered down to my lower body. Is he checking me out or am I imagining things? Instead of being embarrassed—not that I can tell with his cheeks already pink from exertion—he has that usual magnanimous grin plastered on his face. I, on the other hand, feel a deep warmth creep up my neck.

Once inside the changing rooms, I freeze, transported back to my anxious teenage years, partly due to the regiment of lockers, low benches and the musky melange of sweat and muscle balm in the humid air. Angst creeps up on me at the thought of showering naked with other men, especially the demigod Kit Hansen. Until I remember with a wave of relief followed by a little disappointment that the sports club has large private changing cubicles with individual showers inside.

While I stand there dithering over which one to take, I feel the light tap of a racquet on my backside as Kit moves past me.

“Catch you outside, handsome.”

*****

I lead Kit to the Tandoor Temple on the high street, around the corner and a couple of streets down from the sports centre. Although the Temple seems like a generic high street Indian restaurant I know the chef is from Mysore and includes southern indian dishes, authentic South Karnataka cuisine to be precise. For some reason I had imagined that Kit, being a Texan, would not have experienced the delights of Indian cuisine. Which is why I want to be his guide to its wonderful world of vibrant colours, smells and mouthwatering spices. Inside the large restaurant, only a couple of tables are taken towards the front, although there appears to be a large and at times raucous party hidden away at the back. Our burgundy waistcoated waiter shows us to a small booth along the right wall, away from the noise. I sit facing the restaurant window, while Kit sits opposite, his cheeks blushed still from the exertions, his shower tussled blond hair damp and, frankly, sexy.

“Hope you’re okay with Indian food. This place had a great write-up in the local rag. Specialist regional Indian dishes. Although their coffee is probably the worst I’ve ever tasted,” I say, as the waiter places the laminated menus down in front of us and smiles at me. “If you’re not sure, I can order for you.”

“Nu-uh, I’m fine,” he says, his nose diving into the menu. “I love Indian. And they have one of my favourites, Mysore Masala Dosai. You want to share some onion Bhajis? Maybe a garlic nan bread?”

“Ah,” I say, both amazed and a little deflated. “You know Indian food?”

“Sure,” he says, before looking up and smirking. ”What? You think we only have steak houses and Taco Bells in Austin?”

“You know what?” I huff, handing him my menu. “You won. So why don’t you order for both of us. Surprise me. I’ll foot the bill.”

Which is exactly what we do. He orders well, a generous but not over the top selection of appetisers and mains. Kit has quite the appetite and dives in straight away. Native style, he prefers to scoop up dahl and vegetable curry with torn off pieces of nan bread, rather than using cutlery, occasionally dunking his fingers into the stainless steel finger bowl of lemon water that the waiter provides.

During the meal, he asks innocuous questions about my life in Croxburgh. Rattling off the usual story, I tell him about living with my lodger Billy and Mr Waldorf in the unique house I inherited from my uncle. He breaks my flow often, urging me to provide more details about individuals: Who is Mr Waldorf? What is Billy like? How did my uncle die? Without feeling pressured, I fill him in on the basics and have him chuckling at some of them. Careful not to break the mood, I gloss over the final difficult months of Uncle Dom’s illness.

“So come on Kit,” I ask, after taking a long draught of my Kingfisher beer and feeling bolder to ask. “Enough about me. What brought you to England? You deflected the question the other day.”

“I did?” he asks.

“You did.”

“Yeah, I guess I did,” he agrees, chewing still but his mouth slowing. I can see by the way his brows scrunch that he is not completely comfortable. Finally his eyes meet mine and he nods his acquiescence.

“Not a word to Kimberley.”

“She’s not so bad, you know. You ought to try and get to know her.”

“Not a word.”

“Okay, okay. My lips are sealed,” I promise, putting my glass down to give him my full attention.

“I’m getting over somebody right now.”

I nod wisely. Why does that sound familiar?

“So here’s the lowdown on yours truly. Married for a year. To my college sweetheart of six years. Back in Austin. Corny, huh? We graduated same time, her in business marketing and me in media and journalism. Both successful, although she earned a lot more than I did, partly ‘cause she had the advantage of working for daddy’s pharmaceutical company. Nice house but no kids. Suppose that’s something I got to be grateful for. Anyway, about five years ago she told me she wanted out. Said she’d decided marriage wasn’t for her. Blamed myself ‘cause I travelled in and out of the country a lot, didn’t get back home much. Until my sister informed me that my dear spouse had been schtupping with her boss, the head of department. Apparently a lot of people know. Daddy even approved. But nothing was made public. Even with that intel, I didn’t want to challenge the divorce, because if I’m going to be completely honest, I’d also strayed. On the plus side nothing was messy or drawn out. Eventually sold the house, but in that market we barely covered our costs. All that time together and nothing to show. Hell, sometimes you got to lose everything to get a little perspective on life.”

“Amen to that, Kit, you poor sod.”

Even though his gaze is fixed on the plate in front of him, he gently shakes his head.

“Divorce was the easy part. Some things are a lot harder. Means I get to be a free agent now and can go where the work takes me. S’why I’m here. But kind of looking forward to getting on with the job and enjoying my time as a single guy. And more than anything I could use a few friends right now.”

“I hear you. And if you ever need a night out—see a film, have a lousy game of tennis or meal together, anything—just give me a shout. I’d also appreciate the company.”

“Deal. Your partner going to be okay with that?”

“Oh,” I say, guilt flooding my face. I take a slug of beer before continuing. “As we’re putting our cards on the table tonight I should also confess. He’s no longer my partner. We broke up when he went off to southeast Asia for work. There you go. Seven months ago, but I still find it hard to tell people the ugly truth. Pretty pathetic, huh?”

For a few seconds he says nothing, just aims his level gaze at me. Something is going on behind those beautiful blues.

“Not really,” he replies, after a few moments. “But now it’s your turn to lay it on the line.”

For the first time in a long time, I feel comfortable discussing Vaughan. Strange really, I have rehearsed this many times, waiting for the right person and the right moment, but the words come tumbling out off script. I tell him how we had our problems, that I was not blind to them. People are not together for seven years, living in each others pockets, without sensing the signs of discord. Although I did my best to shoulder most of the burden of care for Uncle Dom in his final year, Vaughan chipped in where he could, without once complaining. I will always appreciate that. After Uncle Dom's funeral in March, I thought that bringing a young, irreverent lodger like Billy into the household, into the fold, might bring much needed energy and fun back into the relationship. And it did for a time. But on hindsight, Billy’s presence only made Vaughan's decision to move on that much easier. Kit has the good sense to let me sit quietly for a few moments while the emotional recollections run their course. Finally he breaks the silence.

“Believe it or not, my therapist only recently talked me into removing my wedding band. Said I was using it to avoid the possibility of new relationships.”

“A ring of invisibility?” I offer, perking up.

“Something like that,” he says, chuckling, before meeting my gaze. “So looks like we’re both free and single?”

“And like you, I’m not desperate to get back into the game,” I say, and notice his eyes drop to the table. “But a friend would be very much appreciated.”

At the end of the meal we both sit chatting and sipping our beers. Comfortable in each other’s company, he asks more questions about Vaughan and I open up more than I have to anyone. Billy believes that gay men cannot have good-looking straight friends because they always want to go for a conversion: get into their underpants and try to turn them to the dark side. The reality is that the gay friend usually ends up embarrassed and frustrated, with one less friend in the world. The more I turn this over in my head, the more I think that maybe Kit and I can make good platonic friends. We have both been damaged in some way and can offer each other emotional support. If only he was not so damned good-looking.

As the sizeable party from the back files past our table, a combination of blandly suited men and women, a shadow halts next to us and a knuckle raps on the tabletop beside me. When I look up, DC Whitehead towers over me, his gaze as dark and humourless as ever. Caught off guard, I have no time to prepare for the wave of annoyance, and irritated breath hissing from me.

“Mr McCann,” he says, nodding to me before turning and taking in Kit. I notice Kit has frowned, sizing him up too, which helps moderate my mood.

“Detective,” I reply, nodding with little enthusiasm.

When I glance past him again I realise this must be a boys-in-blue night out. All of Whitehead’s party are of a similar build and have the same don’t-mess-with-me air about them. When I meet his eyes again, I notice him frowning with concern at my face.

“What happened to you?”

When I realise his gaze is focused on my left cheek, I raise a hand self consciously to cover the scratch.

“Took a fall during a game of tennis.”

“Did you now?” he says, nodding, the tone unsurprised. “Chaudhary filled me in on your theory.”

When he turns his face towards the front window, I am unable to read his face.

“A touch fanciful, don’t you think? She asked me to look into it.”

“Which I’m sure you’ll do admirably,” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm from my tone. What is it about this man that brings out the worst in me? Probably because I am pretty sure nothing will be looked into. Not seriously, anyway. “And she told me about the alibi provided by a neighbour across the road from me. Which you conveniently forgot to mention. So I suppose I’m no longer a suspect.”

“She said that?”

“No, but—“

“There you go again, Mr McCann, making assumptions. Until we know the exact details, nobody’s above suspicion.”

“Me, you mean?”

“When more reports come in, we may need to talk to you again, go over a few things. Will you be at home later in the week.”

“I’m grounded all week. Thanks to your lot.”

Until Kit interrupts, I had not noticed his darkened expression. His dusty brows have drawn together in irritation.

“If you need a lawyer, Cole, just say the word. The corporation I freelance for is well connected over here. You shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of bullcrap.”

“You think you need a solicitor, Mr McCann?” says Whitehead, never taking his attention from me.

“That decision’s got nothing to do with you,” Kit snaps, before I have the chance to respond. I am guessing Kit and DC Whitehead will not be brushing each other’s hair anytime soon.

“I’ll be in touch,” says Whitehead, still ignoring him, instead rapping his knuckle once again on the table to signify his departure, before striding out of the restaurant. He moves with the languid strength of a lion. Even with the cheap suit, it is quite something to witness. No wonder they call him a Rottweiler.

“Guy’s a piece of work,” mutters Kit, as the restaurant door closes behind Whitehead, and I realise he has been watching him leave too.

“You have no idea. That thug has made my life hell this week.”

“I guess this is about the friend that died? The kooky old guy I saw you with outside the pub?”

“Denny. Yes.”

I had forgotten that Kit met Denny, albeit briefly, outside the pub. Apart from the murderer, Kit must be the second to last person to have seen Denny alive.

“So what exactly happened. If you don’t mind me asking.”

For some reason I do not and give Kit the full story, adding my own thoughts and feelings. Just the act of going through everything again feels cathartic. Encouraged by a few of his questions along the way, I recall events a lot better without the pressure of trying to remember. Something else nags at the back of my mind, perhaps a detail I have overlooked, but that chest remains firmly buried

“Doesn’t make any sense, you know,” I say, with a heavy sigh. “I saw that he’d entered his house that night, and then I learn on Monday morning that he’s dead. Bashed over the head and left floating in the ponds.”

Tempted as I am to give him the police version, of Denny being killed at home, I keep my word to Chaudhary and say nothing.

“These things rarely make sense. Do the police have any idea who might have done it?”

“Apart from me, you mean?” I say, with a grimace. “No. At least not that I know of. During the winter months, those woods are barely used during the daytime—the odd dog owner taking a stroll maybe. But it’s been known for cruising by gay men at night. So not a ghost in hell’s chance of a witness. Good news is that I’m in the clear. A neighbour saw me coming home that night.”

“So what was that about earlier? With the Sam Spade wannabe?”

“I don’t think DC Whitehead subscribes to the notion of people being innocent until proven guilty. In fact, you’re probably a suspect now, just by association.”

“Yeah? Well tell him to bring it on,” he snarls. “We got plenty of cops like that back in Texas. Shoot first, ask permission later. I’m serious about that offer of a lawyer, Cole.”

“Nice of you,” I say, and toy with the idea of telling him that Vaughan had offered the same. “Traditionally us English commoners aren’t so quick off the mark with legal assistance. Mainly because it costs an arm and a leg. But honestly, that guy’s just full of hot air. His boss, DS Chaudhary, plays fair and she told me I’m in the clear. So I’m going to save my pennies and trust her.”

“Well the offer’s on the table if you change your mind. So this dead guy—“

“Denny.”

“Denny. You and he weren’t close.”

“Not at all. Used to be once upon a time, or at least closer than we are now, back when our circles collided.”

“I see. Just wondered why he picked you of all people to help him home that night. Jeremy said he was a regular.”

“A barfly and a loner. From what I’m told he barely talked to anyone except to order drinks. Didn’t always used to be that way. When his partner Alfie was alive they were quite the social butterflies. In fact, some of our old acquaintances are throwing a dinner party in his honour the day before the funeral. Weekend after next down in Dorset. Derek and his partner, Hugh. And I’m obliged to attend. Their dinner parties used to be legendary. Not seen them in years.”

“Dorset? That’s in the south, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Portmanton’s about twenty miles inland.”

“How’re you getting there?”

“Train, I suppose. Hadn’t really thought about it. It’ll be couples and small talk,” I say, and leave unspoken that I will probably get grilled about Vaughan. “I might see if I can wriggle out of it.”

“Why? Ought you not show your face, pay your respects? You were the last one to see him alive.”

“I’ll go to the funeral. Of course I will,” I say, prodding the slice of lime in the neck of my beer bottle. “But the dinner party will be all happy gay couples with endless questions. Not sure I could stomach that.”

“If you want, I could come along? Keep you company? I’ve got some business down south, anyway.”

My gaze shoots up from the tablecloth at that remark.

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t. I offered.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Apart from an upcoming appointment my diary is pretty clear. Looking forward to giving the rental a good run. Try out the freeways and those famous English country lanes of yours. Haven’t had the chance to drive much yet and it’s killing me. Even if you all do drive on the wrong side of the road.”

I have to say, the thought of having this handsome American along makes the thought of the trip much more attractive. I am almost beginning to like the idea of seeing Derek’s reaction on meeting my new friend.

“I’ll need to check with Derek but I don’t think it’ll be a problem. Especially when I tell him that if you can’t come, then neither can I. And if you’re going to drive, I insist on buying you lunch before we head off. New place down the road from here.”

“Deal,” he says, with a wink that has my stomach fluttering. Before he can witness this, however, he begins to rise from the table. “Come on, my place is just around the corner. Come up for a coffee.”

At some point I wonder if I am going to have to explain to this straight man what effect these simple gestures are having on me. Then again, maybe it is not a good idea. He is probably like Mark, Janine’s husband, someone who will play up the anomaly, flirt even more rather than stopping.

Kit’s apartment really is just around the corner, on the upper floor above a florist’s store. He guides me up the steep set of stairs accessed through a small door to the right of the shop. At the top, he props a packed suitcase against the wall, allowing me to enter the simple flat which opens into a living room with an open kitchen, and two doors leading off. Considering he only moved in at the weekend, the flat appears well organised and comfortable, if a little spartan on the furnishings front. While I sink into his lime sofa he heads into the kitchenette and starts fiddling with a pristine but complicated stainless steel coffee machine. When I peer up and sigh with relief, I see him grinning while pushing buttons confidently like a seasoned coffee shop employee. Cupboard doors are opened and cups arranged on the surface quickly and with practiced precision. Within seconds the pungent aroma of brewing coffee beans rolls across the room like a welcome mist. I decide not to tell him that I am a diehard tea drinker.

“Bought this baby over the weekend. Got the same back in good old Texas.”

While I close my eyes and breathe in the scent, I let my fingers probe a raw spot on my cheek. Absently, I hear him opening and closing cupboard doors again. Seconds later, I open my eyes to find him standing over me, a mug of coffee in one hand, which I accept, and an antiseptic wipe and tissue paper held in the other.

“Let me clean that up for you.”

“It’s just a scratch,” I say, but before I can object he is holding my head with one hand and wiping something pungent smelling into my cheek. The sudden sting draws a hissed breath out of me but the simple act and the intimacy of his warm hand cradling my cheek is doing all kinds of things to my libido. When he finishes I turn my head to face his, wait until our eyes lock and allow mine to linger longer than they ought.

“You have no idea how much I want to kiss you right now,” I whisper.

Confusion flickers across his face before he becomes serious, shakes his head gently and leans back. Sickly guilt floods my stomach. Have I just ruined a friendship?

“That may bruise,” he says.

He has no idea how right he is.

“Sorry, Kit,” I murmur. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Instead of answering directly, he slowly folds the wet wipe into the tissue paper and crumples them into his fist. After a moment of hesitation, he speaks without looking at me.

“You’re an attractive guy, Cole. And despite what you may think I am flattered. But it’s just—”

“I know.” Only prize idiots make the classic gay blunder of trying to come on to a straight guy. “Lesson learnt. I misread your thoughtfulness for something more. I promise never to do that again.”

Kit continues to glare down at the floor then, looks as though he is deciding whether to say something. Eventually he puts his head in his hands and claws his hair and I barely hear what he mutters.

“Jeez, Cole. You’re really conflicting me here.”

I hate that I have made him uncomfortable and begin to rise from the sofa.

“Maybe I should go.”

“No,” he says, grabbing my elbow. “Please. Stay and finish your coffee.”

Although I am in two minds, I sit back down again.

“Can we rewind? Forget I said anything. Tell me about that complicated looking coffee machine of yours.”

Fortunately for me, he relaxes and becomes animated then, and goes on to explain the multi-functioning device, referring to an instruction manual he plucks from a table next to the sofa. Little of what he says makes sense but I am happy to watch him talk. More than happy to let his dulcet tones lull me. When he points out certain features on the counter top, I notice a familiar card from Barnie and Jennifer, an invitation to their engagement party. At a suitable break in his download I ask if he is going to the party. He stops for a moment to reflect but then continues on.

“Not sure. Going out of town for the rest of the week.”

That piece of information sends a pang of disappointment through me. I had hoped to have Kit there to break any teacher grilling or rambling I might get dragged into and to provide me with an excuse to leave early. Part of me hopes his decision has not just been made on the spot following my emotional faux-pas.

“I see.”

“No, really, Cole. Arranged last week. I got interviews I need to get to Thursday and Friday. Person to person. In a place called Harrogate. Actually I was going to ask—“

His sudden hesitation could signal a hundred and one things, but I decide to let him off lightly.

“If you’re wondering about your pronunciation, it’s perfect.”

“Is that right?” he says, a smile of relief touching his mouth. “Harrogate in Yorkshire. Did you know it’s twinned with Harrogate Tennessee in the States? Thought it’d make a nice side story.”

“I didn’t know that. And although you pronounce the town name perfectly, over here the shire syllable in Yorkshire is pronounced like the first syllable of Shirley, not as in the word hire,” I offer, knowing how much fun the average Brit gets out of hearing overseas visitors mispronounce place names. I suppose he should be grateful he is not being sent to Leicestershire.

“Yorkshire, then,” says Kit, clearly amused. “You guys and your pronunciations.”

“Says the man who comes from a land where putting A and R on the front of Kansas means learning a whole new pronunciation?”

He laughs aloud at that and knocks his shoulder playfully with mine. I feel as though the awkward moment may have finally passed and been forgotten—by him, at least. As I brush some hair over my ear, he peers at me again and his focus narrows in on my hand.

“You know, you ought to get a plaster on that. Got some band aids packed in a box somewhere. Give me a minute.”

Sat alone I crane my head around and give the apartment another appraisal. Even though the place is small and located on the high street, the noise of traffic is barely noticeable and the landlord has clearly given the place a makeover before handover. But Kit has done little to make the place his own. The most personal items are on shelves that fill one wall full of what appear to be either biographies or political history and one shelf filled with bound subscription magazines. Boxes of other books lay on the floor waiting to be put on display. Somewhat anally, I wonder how Kit arranges his collection, whether randomly or, like me, using some kind of organised alphabetised system. I stand then, and move around the room. In a couple of places, various monochrome photographs lay propped against the wall, perhaps waiting to me mounted, perhaps not. If he is only planing on staying in the country for a few months there would be little point. The only colour comes from a framed print of Edwards Hopper’s Nighthawks sat beneath the shelving.

The composition of each photograph is incredible, taken with a keen eye and of professional quality, each covering either live events, such as a Formula One car caught in stunning clarity while the background is a blur, or political meetings, one with a cheerful Obama sharing a joke with the King of Jordan. Some of the portraits appear to be personal. One of the photographs catches my eye, a beautiful picture of five good looking men in a group picture, standing in front of a light aeroplane. Something strikes me then. Three older men, probably in their mid to late forties, stand in together flanked by younger ones all leaning against the plane and grinning happily. In the centre of the group the man resembles Kit, much older but with an unmistakeable family resemblance. Neither can I help but notice the way his hand is draped around the man standing to his left, and the way that man’s head is turned to him in an expression of adoration.

“Admiring my work?” comes Kit’s voice as he approaches me. “Not much point putting them up when I’m only here ’til the job’s done.”

“You took these?”

“Most of them, yep,” he says, then grabs the one I had been studying. “Not this one, though.”

“Beautiful. So sharp,” I say, wondering if I have offending him by prying. “Thought the man on the right was you.”

Something in my words transforms his face into one of sad refection. He glances up then, seems to come to his senses. I notice a flicker of emotion—confusion or irritation perhaps—cross his brow and he bends stiffly to replace the photo.

“Not me. Just friends. Come on, let’s get this plaster on your hand. Then I need to pack my bag. Early start tomorrow.”

Perhaps because of my earlier faux-pas, Kit seems to become businesslike now and after patching me up, sends me on my way. On the way out, I pass his already packed suitcase sitting at the top of the stairs.