Page 44 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
“Too bloody right.” I grinned at him, totally, gloriously happy.
I tried to pull him down to kiss him again, but he resisted.
“Hang on a mo.” He stripped off his shirt and used it to wipe up the mess he’d left on my face and chest. Then he lay on top of me, and we snogged like teenagers.
Well. Like teenagers who’d just had a really good shag.
We had to make do with a snatched bit of toast for breakfast, as we were running late. Well, we weren’t when we woke up, but we definitely were by the time we managed to finally get out of bed. Fortunately, we were both in such a good mood by then neither of us gave a toss about breakfast.
“Are you coming with me to see Arlo Fenchurch this evening?” Phil asked, pulling on his jacket.
I glanced up from lacing my work boots. “Uncle Armpit? Wouldn’t miss it. Unless, of course, you’re planning to accuse me of trying to get off with him, that is.” I grinned so he’d know I wasn’t still pissed off with him about that.
Well, not that pissed off.
Phil gave me a look. “I never said you were trying to get off with Lance Frith. I may have said he was trying to get off with you.”
“Oi, I was there, remember? There was a definite suggestion I was quite happy with the idea. And by the way, cheers for the ringing endorsement of my taste in men.”
“Picky, are we?”
“Too right. Did you somehow miss those glasses he was wearing? And I’m not even talking about hanging a dowsing pendulum round your neck.”
Phil shrugged. “Granted, he dresses pretentious, but there’s nothing wrong with the bloke underneath.”
“Sounds like I’m the one who should have been worried, then.”
He gave me a serious look then, the sort that had me in mortal danger of melting into my boots. “You’ll never have anything to worry about.”
Sod it. I had literally nought point five seconds to get out the door, and I’d really wanted that second bit of toast.
But I wanted to snog my bloke silly more.
I made it to Mr. L.’s confusing country cottage (at some point, someone must have rerouted a lane, as the front door was round the back) only five minutes late. I don’t think he even noticed. He was on the phone the entire time I was there—putting in a new loo, which turned out to be a bastard because the soil pipe had been a botch job—and didn’t even hang up or put ’em on hold while he paid me. Needless to say, I didn’t get the cup of coffee I was desperate for.
All in all, by the time I’d finished the morning’s jobs, I reckoned I was well justified in calling up Gary and getting him to meet me for another pub lunch.
I know, I know. But, well, Phil had given me a lot to think about. And sometimes you need to talk stuff through to know how you really feel about it, yeah? And it was Friday anyhow, which made going to the pub at lunchtime practically obligatory.
This time, I’d picked the pub, so we met up at the Duck and Grouse. It’s only up the road from the Four Candles, but streets away in terms of atmosphere, in my humble opinion. The sort of place that still has regulars who only go in there to drink beer and get away from the wife. I’ve got no idea where the wives go to get away from their husbands, but it’s not the Duck and Grouse. The female clientele tends to be (a) young, single, and boisterous and (b) outnumbered.
I sank onto a barstool and had a squint at the menu while I was waiting for the barmaid to notice me. It was chalked up on a board on the wall, and hadn’t changed for as long as I could remember, but you never know.
My vigilance was rewarded: I spotted a sneaky change from steak and kidney pie, chips, and peas to steak and ale pie, chips, and peas. I decided to play it safe and stick with a ploughman’s. No point encouraging them in all this avant-garde bollocks.
The barmaid finished serving a bloke with a potbelly and a beard and ambled over in my direction with an unhurried tread. “What can I get you?” She was middle-aged but dressed younger, with an air of having seen it all before and not being totally averse to seeing it all again.
“Diet Coke, please, love, and a vodka martini.”
“For your invisible friend?” she asked with a smirk.
I winked at her. “He’ll be here in a mo, and trust me, you won’t be able to miss him.”
Her smile broadened. “Now I remember you. You’re Gary’s mate, aren’t you?”
“Guilty as charged.” Gary might not come in here often, but it didn’t surprise me one bit he was remembered when he did.
She sighed as she handed me my Coke. “Typical. All the best ones are either gay or taken.”
