Lavender & Gold - 1. The Boy with the Lavender Eyes

CHAPTER ONE

The Boy with the Lavender Eyes

‘Hi. I’m Mark.’ The boy smiled a crooked smile. Somewhere in his early twenties, he was far from classically beautiful. He was quite skinny, and quite a bit shorter than Ben’s six foot two. His nose was slightly asymmetrical, his face round. He wore his hair in an uneven side-cut with faint traces of green dye, washed out, and he had an industrial piercing in his right ear and a tunnel in the left. In spite of his unorthodox, bordering on punky appearance, however, he somehow oozed sex appeal. It was in the way he carried himself, the way he brought his glass (red wine, no fancy umbrella drinks) to his lips, the sway of his hips, the way he cocked his head to one side while he spoke, and Ben, who had always considered himself mostly straight, felt his mouth go slightly dry.

‘Ben,’ he said, shaking Mark’s hand.

‘I know,’ said Mark, still smiling. ‘I don’t live under a rock, you know.’ He was local; North London, judging by the accent. ‘Benjamin Connor, actor, hottest thing to come out of Britain since The Beatles, some say, though I don’t think that’s quite true.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘You do have one of the biggest fan followings on the Internet, though. Terrifying.’ His eyes sparkled. They were a dark grey blue, shifting in shades of lilac when they reflected the dim lights of the loft.

Ben’s rise to fame had hardly surprised anyone, not even himself. After numerous roles on the London stage, and appearances in several BAFTA-winning television productions, Hollywood had seemed like the natural next step and Benjamin Connor had become one of the biggest new names in show-biz. Ben didn’t mind his fan following one bit. He adored his fans almost as much as they adored him, and with every chat show appearance and movie premiere, he felt more and more at ease with his new role.

‘You seem to know everything about me,’ he said, smiling as well.

Mark shrugged. ‘Not really. Seen all your films, though. You’re not half bad.’

Ben’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. ‘You’re not half bad.’ It was a refreshing thing to hear. Usually, people said, ‘Holy shit, you’re awesome!’ or ‘How do you manage to capture your audience like that, you amazing creature, you?’ Ben always tried not to let the praise go to his head, but one did get to a point where one started to believe it. He was not, however, arrogant enough to be offended. So instead he said, ‘Thank you,’ and smiled graciously. Mark laughed.

‘Not what you’re used to hearing, I expect,’ he said.

A brief silence followed, and Ben realised it was his turn to speak. ‘So, what do you do, Mark?’

‘I’m a musician,’ Mark replied, taking another sip of his wine. ‘No one important. I’m so hip, no one’s ever heard of me.’

Ben smirked. ‘Meaning no disrespect of course, but in that case, how did you find yourself here tonight?’

Mark leaned in, bringing his lips close to Ben’s ear and whispered conspiratorially, ‘I’m a party crasher. Snuck in for a laugh. Expect they’ll find me out soon.’ He pulled back again and winked.

‘This is a private function. I should inform the hostess,’ said Ben softly.

‘Yeah, but you’re not gonna,’ Mark replied. ‘You like me too much.’

‘Is that right?’ asked Ben, dropping his already considerable baritone in pitch.

‘Oh, it’s sexy when you drop your voice like that.’ Mark’s words took Ben by surprise. It was not the first time in the course of their short conversation.

There came a soft buzzing sound from Mark’s pocket, and he pulled out his ringing mobile. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. . . Sorry, have to take this.’ He put the phone to his ear, but didn’t step away. ‘Hi.’ Pause. ‘Out. No, nothing like that, you ninny. . . Of course. No, why would I do that? I wouldn’t do that!’ Frustrated sigh, sip of wine. ‘Come on, sweetheart, just—yeah. I know, but you’re gonna have to start trusting me at some point, baby. I’ll be home later. I promise! Okay. Love you too. Bye.’ He blew out a puff of air as he put the phone back in his pocket.

‘Girlfriend trouble?’ asked Ben.

‘Boyfriend,’ Mark corrected. ‘Len. He’s such an insecure twat sometimes. . . No, sorry, that’s not fair. I shouldn’t drag you into this.’ He smiled at Ben.

‘So you’re—’ Ben had been about to say, ‘gay’, but cut himself off, realising that the question would have been both redundant and inappropriate. He cleared his throat. ‘You’re having problems. All couples do. I’m sure it’ll sort itself out.’

Mark cocked an eyebrow. ‘How would you know?’ he asked. ‘More or less reliable sources from Graham Norton to The Daily Mail tell me you’ve been single for most of your acting career.’

Ben lowered his gaze, but smiled. ‘Yeah, you’re right about that. Guess I’m not the right person to be giving relationship advice.’

‘Probably not.’ Mark looked around, drained his wine glass and set it on an end table next to them. ‘I should probably get out of here before they catch me. Dying for a fag, anyway. It was nice meeting you, Ben.’ They shook hands, and when Mark pulled his away, Ben discovered a piece of paper in his own palm.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘My number,’ said Mark, turning away.

‘What would I want with that?’

‘So you can call me.’

‘I’m not going to do that.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘That’s—I’m not. . . You have a boyfriend!’ Ben stuttered.

Mark turned back with a smirk. ’Perv! Did I say this had anything to do with romance or sex?’ He looked away for a moment. Then he looked at Ben again. ‘Besides, that whole thing will probably end soon.’

‘You told that man you loved him,’ Ben reminded him.

‘I do. To absolute bits.’ Mark smiled sadly. ‘Doesn’t mean it won’t end. All things do.’

* * *

Ben woke up the next morning, bleary-eyed and hungover, to a phone call from his PA, Alice.

‘Nguh?’

‘Good morning, star shine!’ said Alice brightly. ‘Late night?’

‘Mnuh. . .’ Ben affirmed. ‘Wha’time ’sit?’

‘Eleven o’clock. Don’t worry, save for dinner with your parents at five you have the day off, so you can just relax. I just wanted to confirm that your flight to JFK leaves from Heathrow at 10:45 tomorrow. I’ll be by in a taxi to pick you up at 7:30. And I’ve confirmed your hotel booking for Manhattan. Do you need me for anything today?’

‘Mmno,’ Ben mumbled. ‘Don’t think so. . . ’M all set for painkillers and coffee. . .’

Alice giggled. ‘How much did you drink?’

‘I have absolutely no idea, Catherine kept the wine flowing like water.’

‘Well, all right then. I’ll take the day off. Should I ring you around three so you’re not late?’

‘No, I’m getting up.’ Ben groaned as he pulled himself into a sitting position.

‘You’ll be happy to know that Singularity Sky is getting positive reviews from pretty much everyone, by the way. They all love you. And Catherine, most of them. The Guardian expressed worry as to how it’s going to be received in America, though, with such an eccentric plot.’

Ben made a non-committal sound while he gathered his thoughts. ‘Well, if Cloud Atlas could do it. . .’ he finally mumbled. ’Sky is nowhere near as eccentric as that.’

‘Are you still upset about being passed over for Ben Wishaw?’ Alice sounded amused. Ben wanted to blow a raspberry at her, but it felt like too much effort just then. ‘Anyway, I’ll call you at six tomorrow morning,’ she continued ‘Eat something, will you?’

‘Mm, yeah. Bye, Alice.’

He returned the telephone receiver to its base on the nightstand. Then he stood, shakily. His head felt like Dresden, his body like Hiroshima, and his bladder was looking to explode at any moment. His mouth tasted like something had died in it. He shuffled across the room, towards the bathroom, stopping on the way to rummage through the pocket of his (very fine, bespoke tailored) navy suit jacket for his mobile. As he pulled it out, a small, white piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He picked it up, with great effort and quite a few demonstrative grunts aimed at no one, and squinted at it. Eleven digits.

That young man’s phone number. What had his name been? Matt? Mark? Mark, he decided. Mark, the punky twentysomething who had flirted with him. He felt his face flush, thinking about him. Had he really found himself attracted to the boy? He had a hard time remembering what he had looked like. The only thing that came to mind was a pair of intense, dark greyish blue eyes, shifting in shades of lavender.

He put the piece of paper on his desk and proceeded to the bathroom.

* * *

The following weeks were a whirlwind. After New York came LA, numerous chat show appearances, parties, meetings with directors and producers who wanted him, phone calls from his agent, Liam, who had scripts for him to look over, more parties, and, against his principles and better judgment, one slightly messy affair with an American actress (which went blissfully unnoticed by the media), before he was finally permitted to return to his flat in Soho. Here he had a week off, before he was due to start rehearsals for The Crucible in the West End. It felt comforting to be back in his own home. Out there, he was constantly surrounded by people, never alone, never lonely. His flat was quiet, calm and dark. It was a relief, but he missed the constant company. On his own, with no one to perform for, Ben felt strangely empty.

Which was probably why, when he got in from Heathrow at eight in the evening, collapsing in his desk chair, and discovered Mark’s number where he’d left it on the desk, Ben thought, Why not?

He dialled the number on his mobile. It rang three times.

‘Hello?’

‘Mark?’

‘Yeah, that’s me.’

‘It’s Ben.’

Silence.

‘Ben who?’

‘Ben Connor.’

More silence.

‘Wow. I didn’t actually think you’d. . . that’s. . . wow.’

‘How have you been?’

‘Oh, you know,’ said Mark slowly, ‘starving artist. . . You?’

‘Stressed. Been travelling, working. Just got back to London tonight.’

‘And you rang me?’

Ben chose to change the subject rather than answer him. ‘How’s the boyfriend?’

‘Long gone.’

‘Oh.’ Ben processed this new information for a moment, and found himself oddly pleased with it.

‘So. . . d’you wanna go for a drink?’ asked Mark after a few moments.

Ben hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I can do that. . . People tend to go a bit mental around me at the moment.’

‘Ah. Of course.’ Mark sounded uncomfortable. Ben considered for a moment.

‘Do you like whisky?’ he asked eventually.

‘What?’

‘Whisky. Single malt. Scotch. Do you like?’

‘Er, yeah. . .’

‘Good. I have a bottle of twenty-one-year-old The Balvenie. Where do you live?’

‘Huh? Oh, er, Camden.’

‘Text me the address. I’ll come over.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes. I’m bored. I have nothing better to do.’

‘. . .Okay.’

Ben hung up with a slightly odd, nervous feeling in his stomach. It had been a long time since he’d been with a man. Not since his university days, in fact. He had vague memories of hazy nights with one of his mates, drunk or high or both, going at it slowly, slowly on a narrow single bed, in the shower, on the floor. It had been fun, but nothing more. Somehow, though, for the weeks he’d spent in America he’d been unable to get Mark out of his head.

His mobile buzzed, with the promised text containing Mark’s address. This ought to be interesting.

* * *

Ben knocked twice on the door. It was opened almost immediately by a bemused looking Mark. Ben smiled, and Mark let him in, wordlessly.

He had dyed his hair since last Ben saw him. It was now a rather violent shade of magenta. He wore a grey tank top and torn jeans, and was barefoot.

‘Hungry?’ asked Ben. ‘I brought Chinese.’ He held up a white plastic bag containing two styrofoam containers.

Mark blinked. ‘Oh. Er, yeah. Cheers.’

‘Didn’t know if you had any preferences or anything, so I bought one Peking Duck and one with just veg.’

‘Oh. No, I eat everything.’

‘Good, we’ll just share.’

Ben kicked off his shoes and looked around the small basement flat. Aside from the tiny entrance hall, it was just one room, really. It had a kitchenette in one corner, a sleeping alcove in another. A door off the hall led to a small bathroom. The furniture was all varying degrees of ancient, the sort of things one might find in a flea market, and nothing matched. The walls were lined with bookcases overflowing with volumes. More stood in stacks on every available surface. There were two battered old acoustic guitars, a ukulele, a bass, a bass amp and a small 3/4 length electric piano stacked against a wall. The place was untidy, but cozy.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ Mark mumbled. ‘I started to tidy up a bit, but then I gave up.’ He made a face, then seemed to remember himself and added, ‘Erm, would you like some wine?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Ben. ‘Whisky this good should be enjoyed starting out sober, so one can appreciate it properly.’

‘Ah, rules me out, then.’ Mark smiled weakly. ‘I already had two glasses. . . I was nervous.’

Ben examined the person before him, all slumped shoulders, glancing about—not the confident, bordering on cocky man Ben had met at the party, but a boy somewhat out of his depth.

‘You still are, it seems,’ said Ben. ‘Allow me to put you at ease. The place is nice, I don’t mind a bit of a mess, and I’m not expecting anything from you but company. I rang you because the transition from being around lots of people every day to being all alone in one’s flat is a rough one, and because I liked you when we talked at that party. Now, relax, have a seat, and have some duck.’ He smiled his most reassuring smile, and Mark visibly relaxed a little bit.

Ben set the plastic bag down on the low coffee table that stood before the mildewy couch, and pulled the whisky bottle out of his shoulder bag, putting that down as well. Then he proceeded to the kitchenette, rummaged through the cupboard for a couple of glasses (no two of these matched, either) and then sat down on the couch, patting the seat next to him to indicate for Mark to sit there. He did.

They ate their food, chatting idly about nothing. When they had finished, Ben poured the whisky.

‘This is for sipping, not shooting,’ said Ben as he poured. ‘This whisky was matured for twenty-one years on bourbon casks, and then stored on casks that previously held port. So, it’s quite sweet, has an almost honey-like character. Pleasantly delicate palate, quite fruity, yet also powerful.’

Mark laughed. ‘It’s like you’re giving me fancy wine.’

‘This is better than fancy wine,’ said Ben. ‘This is art.’ He handed Mark a glass. ‘Cheers.’

They each took a sip. Ben felt the sweet, amber liquid glide down his throat, warming him from the inside. He smacked his lips. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘This is my favourite whisky in the world.’

‘Not bad,’ Mark agreed.

Mark wanted to know about Ben’s time in America, and Ben obliged. He shared some anecdotes about other actors and stories about the television appearances he’d made while they had more whisky.

‘So,’ said Mark, as Ben poured them a third glass, ‘why are you really here?’

Ben glanced at him. ‘What do you mean? I told you.’

‘No, but really,’ Mark prompted. ‘If this is some “let’s see how the yobbo lives” nonsense—’

‘It’s not!’ Ben protested. ‘I mean, in a way, but not the way you think. Most of my friends in London, they lead busy lives, I couldn’t just drop in on them like this. They’re all fancy parties and nights out, actors, directors, producers, theatre people. They’re all like me. I want to spend time with someone not like me.’

‘So, you take a break from your glamorous movie star life to come hang with the working class?’

‘You know, contrary to popular belief, I’m not some posho,’ said Ben, gesticulating with his glass before taking a sip. ‘And, what do you mean, working class? You choose to live in a studio in Camden when you could get far better accommodations elsewhere in London for less. Judging by your bookshelf, you’re academic middle class, which makes us more or less equals as far as origins go.’

‘Bollocks!’ said Mark. ‘I know for a fact you went to public school.’

Ben shrugged. ‘I’m an only child, my parents doted. If you’re such a starving artist, how can you afford Camden this close to Market?’

‘I take odd jobs when I can get them,’ said Mark. ‘It’s harder since Len moved out, but my mum helps out when she can. I probably owe her a few thousand quid by now. . .’

‘How old are you, anyway?’ asked Ben.

‘Twenty-three!’ said Mark defensively, and Ben thought, not for the first time that night, What the hell am I doing?

‘So, you’re not a snob,’ Mark continued, raising his glass and inclining his head. ‘Well done. But do you honestly expect me to believe you’re here just because you wanted some company?’

Ben put his elbow on the backrest of the couch and turned towards his drinking companion. He weighed his words carefully for a moment before speaking. ‘I like having an audience,’ he confessed at last.

‘So, this is all an act? You were making all that up, then?’

Ben rolled his eyes. ‘Everything’s an act, Mark. I’m always acting. All the world’s a stage, remember? But I’m an actor, not a liar. I haven’t made anything up.’

‘Still think there’s more to it.’

‘Oh? Why do you think I’m here, then?’

‘I think you like me.’

‘Obviously. I already told you that.’

‘I mean, I think you’re attracted to me.’

‘I’m not gay.’

‘Maybe not. You’re still attracted to me, though.’

Ben smiled, leaning back somewhat and draining his glass. Mark did the same, and Ben topped them up.

‘Well, you’ve seen me perform,’ said Ben after a moment. ‘My turn. You’re a musician, yes?’ He gestured vaguely at the instruments. ‘Play me something.’

Mark cocked an eyebrow. ‘What should I play?’

‘Whatever you like. Play one of your own songs, provided you write any.’

Mark seemed to consider for a moment. Then he nodded and stood up. He chose the more battered of the two guitars, a rather old Gibson, and tuned it quickly and efficiently in drop D. Then he sat down on the floor, cross legged, and played some chords.

His technique was far better than Ben had expected. The progression was relatively complex, and he had a good singing voice too; a clear tenor, bright and expressive. Ben didn’t pay attention to the words much, but leaned back in his seat, sipping his whisky. After the second chorus, he closed his eyes, enjoying the music.

Ben did not open his eyes immediately when the music stopped. He heard Mark put the guitar away, the slight clang of its body touching the floor. He heard him stand up, move closer. Then he felt a hand on the backrest on either side of his shoulders, and a pair of lips touched his, gently. Ben opened his eyes.

Mark pulled back slightly. His words came out somewhat slurred. ‘You come in here with your stupidly long legs and dark hair and cheekbones that can cut glass, and what the fuck do you call that eye colour anyway, blue-green-grey-gold? Offering me expensive whisky and telling me everything about yourself, and you expect me to not make a move?’

‘You’re one to talk,’ murmured Ben. ‘The only way I can think to describe your eyes is lavender.’

Mark burst out laughing, resting his head on Ben’s shoulder as he did so, and sat down in the couch next to him. Ben glanced at him and laughed as well. When the laughter died down, Mark leaned in for another kiss and Ben responded, letting Mark’s tongue in. Then Mark pulled back again, studying his face.

‘You haven’t done this before, have you?’ he asked. ‘With a man, I mean.’

‘I have!’ said Ben defensively. ‘But not in, what, fourteen, fifteen years. . .’

‘You’re really that straight?’

‘I did tell you.’

Mark nodded slowly. ‘D’you want me to go on?’ he asked after a few moments.

‘Maybe not tonight,’ said Ben, glancing at his watch. ‘I should get home soon. Jet lagged and all that.’

‘Course,’ said Mark. He hesitated, looking away. ‘But, some other time?’

Ben licked his lips, considering this for a moment. ‘Quite possibly,’ he said. ‘Don’t sit around waiting for the phone to ring, though. I’m not looking for a relationship.’

Mark nodded. ‘That’s fine. Neither am I.’

‘Right.’

‘Good.’

Ben leaned in and placed another brief kiss on Mark’s lips. ‘I’m gonna ring for a taxi,’ he said softly.

‘You don’t have to.’ Mark’s voice broke slightly. He cleared his throat.

‘I know,’ said Ben. ‘But I will anyway. I’ll call you. You can call me, too, if you like.’

Mark shook his head. ‘I’ll probably end up drunk dialling you.’

‘That’s fine too,’ said Ben, and Mark laughed again.