The Make

‘Yeah, it is. Lorcan always seemed like the only one who could handle Gracie. If he can’t, no one can.’

‘Funny, what draws people together,’ said Alfie.

‘Yeah. Funny.’ George propped himself up on one elbow and smiled down at Alfie. ‘You feeling better now mate?’

‘Yeah, but . . . stay, will you?’

‘Sure.’ George felt a shiver of unease. He was sleepy, he could nod off at a moment’s notice, and what would Harry think if he strolled in here in the morning and found him lying on the sofa bed with Alfie?

He’d think we’re a couple of queers, thought George, and he remembered the cab driver who’d picked them up on the night they met, the way he’d looked at them in the rear-view mirror, that knowing, faintly sneering look . . .

‘I’d better be getting back to bed,’ he said, drawing back, feeling confused all of a sudden, almost disorientated.

‘No, don’t!’ Alfie’s eyes were wide and pleading. ‘Stay with me George. Please.’

‘Alfie . . .’

‘Please.’

‘Okay,’ said George, giving in. What could it hurt, after all? They were pals; he was just reassuring a pal who’d had a hard time of it. That was all.

He switched the light off and lay down, still securely wrapped up in his robe. Alfie flipped the duvet back and George nearly said whoa, what’s going on here? But he didn’t. Alfie needed him. He got under the duvet and snuggled down – no part of him touching Alfie’s body, he made very sure of that. Pretty soon, he was asleep.

In the dim half-light of morning George came awake to the unexpected warmth of another body pressed against his own. He lay there for a moment, thinking what the . . .? And then he remembered Alfie’s nightmares and that Alfie had asked him to stay; and he had. He’d fallen asleep . . . and now Alfie was cuddled up close in the crook of George’s arm, his blond head tucked in beneath George’s chin, his arm flung across George’s chest. Alfie was hugging him like he was a favourite teddy bear or some damned thing, and it felt . . .

George lay there, feeling like he had just entered another country, another world.

It felt wonderful.

What the hell was happening?

He stirred slightly and Alfie felt the movement. Alfie was awake too. His head raised and George could see Alfie’s eyes were open. And then Alfie stretched up just a little and kissed him right on the lips. Alfie’s mouth was soft, pliant. His breath smelled like strawberries and lavender, sweet as the sweetest nectar. Relaxed and full of sleep, George responded. Kissed him back. It was the strangest sensation; like coming home after a long, arduous journey.

Alfie’s mouth opened and George’s tongue explored it. George had never kissed anyone quite like this, so wholeheartedly; and he had never felt this huge surge of compassion along with an entirely healthy dose of lust.

He had done women by the score, but that had been almost mechanical. This was something else. His erection was sudden and enormous. He felt Alfie’s hand sliding inside his robe, scudding over the hairs on his chest, leaving a tingling trail of want – and then dropping down. Alfie sighed as his hand went where it wanted to be, cupping George’s naked balls and then travelling slowly, sinuously up the length of his penis to the dampening tip.

Suddenly George came fully awake. He shot off the sofa bed, yanking his robe around him to hide the full shameful extent of his arousal. Jesus, what was he thinking?

‘No! George, don’t . . .’ said Alfie, but George was already out of the door and heading for the shower, feeling disgusted with himself, his treacherous body still thrumming with need. He jerked himself off in the shower, his mind full of images of Alfie, and then he stood there for a long time under the warm flow of water, leaning his head against the cold tiles, panting, gasping, and wondering what the fuck was happening to him.

Bender, whispered a voice in his head.

But he wasn’t that at all.

Was he?

Chapter 41

Harry was surprised when Emma phoned him on his mobile.

‘Where’d you get this number?’ he asked, delighted but wary, thinking that he was going to get another ear- bashing off this adorable creature. He didn’t want to fight with her, he just wanted to hug her and look at her and keep her close to him, that was all.

‘My mother, of course. Should escorts hand out their personal numbers to clients like that?’

‘Your mother’s not a client, she’s a friend.’

‘She started out as a client,’ said Emma.

‘I know. But only because she was lonely and unhappy, and missed your dad.’

There was a brief silence while she digested this. Then she said: ‘I want to meet up with you. Is that okay? Do I have to pay for your time?’

Harry took a breath, stifling an angry reply. After all, how would he feel if his mother had hired an escort? Bad enough the procession of no-hoper boyfriends Suze had shuffled through the house over the years since Dad left. But hiring in a pro? He wouldn’t be pleased at all. He could see where Emma was coming from.

‘No, you don’t have to pay for my time. I’ll meet you. Where’s good?’

They met up at Jackie’s Notting Hill house.

Harry looked around when Emma let him in the door, wondering if Jackie was here too.

‘Mum’s out on business,’ said Emma.

‘Right.’ Harry unravelled his scarf and unbuttoned his jacket and looked at her.

Jesus, she was so lovely. And so far out of his league. Her dark hair was curling softly on to her shoulders. She was wearing a primrose-yellow pullover with a woven tan belt and a denim skirt over long tan boots. Her movements were quick, jerkier than Jackie’s. Her hands were delicate, pale-veined and well cared for. Her eyes when they met his were the same tremulous, heartbreaking blue as her mother’s.

She led the way into the drawing room where the fire was burning brightly. They sat down, her on one couch, him on the other. Opposites in every way. Him from the rough end of the tracks; her from the posh end. They looked at each other and it was like staring across a huge gulf.

‘I was surprised to get your call,’ said Harry. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to speak to me. I thought you were disgusted by the very idea of me.’

Emma’s mouth twisted. ‘She’s my mother. How would you feel . . .?’

‘Yeah. I know.’

Emma was silent, staring at him.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘I just wonder what drives a person to do that. Sell their bodies for money, I mean.’

Harry shrugged. ‘You just said it. The money.’

‘I think that’s terrible.’

‘I know.’

‘How much?’

‘What?’

‘How much do you charge? Like, per date? Or per hour? Mum wouldn’t say.’

‘Oh.’ Harry felt horribly uncomfortable with this line of questioning. ‘A hundred pounds. Plus—’