Page 43 of Commitment Issues
“Somebody he met through work, apparently,” he says, pushing his empty bowl aside. “He seemed very keen on him — Marcus told me all this — and then, a couple of nights ago, we had a call to say he was coming by himself. That’s all I know, although Marcus had a long conversation with him in private. But you know those two, they’re tight and always have been. Marcus was pretty quiet for the rest of the evening, which isn’t like him. Whatever Gavin told him, he was thinking long and hard about it. Anyway,” he says, getting up from the table, “that’s Gavin’s problem, it’s certainly not yours. You enjoy your sassy student. Your secret’s safe with me, Elliot. The wedding’s drama enough for my taste, and I’ve got no wish to add to it.” With a quick squeeze of my shoulder, Andrew ambles away.
A few minutes later, I make my way back to the cottage, where I find Freddie sitting on the verandah reading a book, a small backpack on the ground next to him.
He’s absorbed and doesn’t notice me. He’s wearing denim cut-offs, and his long legs, stretched out and crossed at the ankle, are scattered with a light dusting of golden hair. Intent on the book, he’s frowning as though he’s found something he doesn’t like, or disagrees with. He shakes his head and opens up a notebook and begins scribbling in it. His hand stills, just as it did in Barista Boys, and like then he looks up and meets my gaze.
“Is it time to go?” he says, standing up as I walk over to him.
“Soon, but not quite yet.”
An awkward smile flitters across his face, as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.
“We’ve got time, but I need to speak to you first.”
“Speak to me?” His eyes widen, alarm in their rich hazel depths.
I’ve done it again, spoken without thinking. Maybe he thinks he’s done something wrong, when in my eyes he’s done everything right.
“Don’t look so worried, everything’s fine, but I just had a conversation with Andrew.”
Freddie’s already pale skin blanches even further.
“Has he changed his mind about me? Does he want me to leave? He seemed okay about it last night, but now he’s had a chance to think about it properly—”
“Nothing of the sort. Our arrangement, it’s between the three of us. He won’t say anything to Marcus, you can be assured of that. So we carry on as agreed.”
My eyes fall to the book and the notebook. “What are you reading?” It doesn’t look like the latest best seller.
“Oh, it’s research for a paper I’m writing.”
He reaches down and picks up the book, his cut-offs slipping a little on his narrow hips and revealing a strip of creamy flesh. The sun’s already hot and he’ll have to be careful not to burn. I clear my throat and try to push away the stubborn, and vivid, image of rubbing lotion slowly into his pale and creamy limbs.
“The man’s an idiot. He claims to be an expert on the dynastic struggles between Ognar Great Beard and Erik the Eunuch, but—”
“Excuse me? Erik — the Eunuch?”
“Not literally, it… Sorry, I get a bit carried away when I talk about, erm, Vikings.” He puts the book down, and again shuffles his weight from foot to foot.
“It’s good to be passionate about something. Even if it is about eunuchs.”
Freddie laughs, his moment of awkwardness falling from him.
“I can assure you, I am very muchnotpassionate about eunuchs. And old Erik wasn’t one. Or as far as we know. I can knock down every one of his arguments like they’re a row of skittles. Ping, ping, ping. I really can’t abide thin, lazy research.” He gives me a small, bashful smile. “So, erm, a trip on a yacht, that’s pretty cool. Just have to make sure I don’t get seasick.”
* * *
Not long after, we all set off for the marina, a short walk away in town which looks more like an overgrown village. Walking along next to Freddie, our arms bump against each other. His hand slips into mine and a tremor of warmth runs up my arm. I turn to look at him, meeting his eye, and he gives me a conspiratorial little wink. We’re back to playing the game.
“Will we be expected to help crew, or can we just laze around in the sun?” Freddie asks under his breath.
“No. It’s just a pleasure cruise along the coast, maybe dropping anchor so those who want to can swim. There’s no need to get up close and personal with muscly sailors.” My words are tighter and more clipped than I mean them to be
If Freddie notices, he doesn’t show it, because all his attention’s taken by what stands before us.
“Fucking hell,” he breathes.
I can’t help agreeing with him. The yacht’s huge, and I wonder how much Andrew’s laid out for it. The guy’s seriously rich, a mix of old, inherited money, and his earnings as a top barrister, but still.
“This wasn’t quite what I was expecting,” Freddie says, his voice still little more than a whisper, as he stares with saucer eyes at the gleaming white vessel that’s very gently bobbing from side to side in its berth.
