Page 10 of Fe
“Can you come for dinner on Sunday. Something I need to tell you.”
“It’s not…bad news, is it?” His heart gave a heavy thump.
“No, don’t worry. Come as early as you like.”
4
By the time Fen left his bedsit, he’d been through every item of clothing he possessed—though that hadn’t taken long—until he’d finally accepted he didn’t own anything near smart enough forBarCalypso,or for Ripley Belmont. He’d looked the bar up. The cheapest cocktail was twelve pounds. Fen had a sneaky suspicion even a lemonade would cost more than he was prepared to pay. It really griped that he could buy a two-litre bottle of lemonade for a fraction of the cost of a glass of it in a bar.
Well, it probably didn’t matter. Maybe Ripley would buy him a drink but that was all. Maybe he’d be there with friends and expect Fen to hand over the bags and leave. It was stupid to hope for more. Especially after the way Fen had spoken to him.
Even so, he wanted to look his best. He’d put on his skinny dark-grey jeans, a pale pink T-shirt and a blue V-necked sweater. Once he’d applied eyeliner, he smiled at his reflection. No point in lip gloss because he’d have licked it off by the time he got there. He looked…tired. But then he always looked tired.
Fen didn’t see himself as good-looking, though from as far back as he could remember, people had told him he was. That type of comment was sort of expected from his mother, but even at ballet school comments had been made about his sharp cheekbones and his soulful eyes. Fen had never imagined he’d turn heads with his looks but now if they did turn, it was most likely because of the way he walked.
Once upon a time, he’d hoped to turn heads when people watched him dance. Maybe he could have reached the top, survived the bullying, taunts and injuries to become a principal. He’d had it all planned out, until things began to go wrong. Fen falling when there was no reason, fumbling a catch, his sense of balance no longer reliable, an easy jump he couldn’t get right. Even climbing stairs became a challenge. His stamina had gone. As his world was falling apart, he remembered being told off for not trying hard enough. But he always tried.
His mum had taken him to the doctor and tests had been done. On his fifteenth birthday, he and his mum had gone to get the results. Fen had BMD, Becker Muscular Dystrophy. It was a genetic disorder, inherited from his mother, a muscle wasting condition, which usually only affected boys. She’d been horrified, and as Fen’s world imploded, it was he who’d had to comfort her, make her see he probably wouldn’t have been around if she’d known and he was glad he was around.Wasn’t she?She’d hugged him hard through her tears. Worse still, his mum was going to have issues with her life too. Not like him, but…
BMD was gradually killing Fen, but he preferred not to think about it like that. Death lurked around the corner for every single person on the planet. No one could predict the future, so he was determined to live the best life he could, while he could. He’d had to accept ballet was no longer an option. A lot of things were no longer options. But after the initial shock and his journey through every stage of grief, he’d understood there was no point going through life being miserable. And if he sometimes couldn’t help feeling sad, then he had to fake looking cheerful.
He put on his Doc Marten boots because that was what he always wore. He liked the support they gave him. He pulled on his beanie and stuffed his gloves in his coat pocket for later. Once he’d fastened up his coat, he headed downstairs with the items he’d bought divided between two plastic bags.
So far his heart was fine, and cardiomyopathy was generally what shortened the lives of sufferers. He did Pilates and Tai Chi, exercised within the bounds of his ability, always took his corticosteroids, attended his medical check-ups, ate as well as he could, and although some days he felt worse than others, he’d not yet noticed a significant decline in his mobility. He was lucky it wasn’t Duchenne’s. Fen was twenty-four and if he’d had DMD, he’d be lucky to make it to his thirties.
Fen had always wished his condition was down to his dad. Well, not his dad. He’d never had a dad. His birth father was only a man who’d made his mum pregnant. A man who’d never acknowledged him, never written to him, never even paid child support. Not that his mother had wanted him to. Fen wasn’t sure how he felt about that because it might have been nice to have had more money for stuff when he was younger, for his mum not to have to work so hard to provide for both of them. But it was what it was. His father was a man who was known and loved the world over. But not by Fen. And he never would be by Fen.
It was a long way to Covent Garden. It would have been much quicker on the Tube but that involved too much walking and he always worried about something happening underground and him getting trapped because he couldn’t get to the surface quickly enough.
The bar was easy to find. Before Fen went in, he stuffed his hat into his pocket with his gloves, then dragged his fingers through his hair so it wasn’t flat to his head. He rarely went to bars unless he went out with his friends and they didn’t ever pick places like this. A glance around inside showed no sign of Ripley. There was no way he could afford to buy a drink while he waited. Fen found a wall to lean against and people-watched. He hadn’t had anything to eat because he’d spent his time—when not faffing over what to wear and how he looked—I’m an idiot—mending the puzzle box—a complete idiot. He wondered if Ripley would even notice. He probably wouldn’t because Fen had done a really good job on the repair.
A group of scantily-clad women were flirting with one of the barmen but Fen had seen the look he’d shot towards a man he’d just served and thought they were wasting their time. Fen had a pretty good gaydar, though he didn’t need it for the two on his right who had their hands in each other’s back pockets as they stood talking. Fen thought how lovely it looked and how if he tried it, he’d probably fall over. To stop himself staring, he read the cocktail menu above the bar.
He checked the time. Two minutes to go. He glanced round and spotted Ripley walk in. Fen took a picture and pushed his phone in his pocket. Ripley wore a slim-cut charcoal suit and white shirt, a knight in his armour, and looked as if he’d come straight from the office. He probably spent his day barking orders at his minions. No tie this time. No smile either. Maybe a smile from him was a rare beast. But he was still sexy and handsome.
So Fen donned the brightest one he could manage without risking looking like a chimpanzee and stepped towards him. “Hi.”
“Are they mine?”
Well, hello to you too, arsehole.“Yes.”
“I’ll take them out to the car.”
Fen handed the bags over and Ripley disappeared. Maybe he wouldn’t come back. Goodbye seventy-five pounds. If it hadn’t been for the money, Fen wasn’t sure hewantedhim to come back.Miserable git.His small hope of Ripley noticing he’d repaired the box disintegrated. What had he expected? A begrudging thanks? But Ripley did come back, this time wearing the Crombie coat with the collar turned up.
“Shall we?” Ripley inclined his head toward the exit.
“Shall we what?”
“Leave.”
“Why?”What the fuck? I thought I was getting a drink?
“There’s a gallery opening I want to take you to.”
“Then why did you arrange to meet me here? I’d started to salivate at the idea of a…Hot Sling. Vodka, Southern Comfort, Amaretto, Peach Schnapps, pineapple and coconut juice. They have cute little monkeys on the stirring sticks.”Shut up, brain! Stop sniggering, cock.
“If I was late, I didn’t want you to wait outside. Are you coming? I have your money.”
