The Make

‘Oh shit!’ she burst out, clutching a hand to her chest.

Then she started to scream.

Chapter 48

It was chocolates this time. Plain chocolates, because he’d expressed an innocent preference for them once in the course of conversation. There had also been the cologne, the black leather wallet engraved with his initial ‘G’; there had even been – for God’s sake – Gucci underpants. And the roses. Now that had been downright embarrassing. A woman, sending him roses!

‘Look,’ said George as he sat with Sandy in the Italian restaurant she favoured, the one she always wanted to go to. She’d given him the red-ribboned box of chocolates at the start of the meal, and he had thanked her but held back on telling her to slow down until they were on their pudding, in case she kicked off. He didn’t want a whole evening of histrionics. Cheese board for George. Tiramisu for Sandy. ‘We really have to talk.’

‘Oh!’ Sandy gave a little laugh and put down her spoon. ‘That sounds ominous.’

‘It’s just . . . these presents. Come on. You can’t afford them . . .’

‘Yes I can. My gran died six months ago. She left me some cash.’

It was a lie. Granny Cole was alive and well and living in Holywell. Sandy had bought all George’s gifts on the plastic, paying off the minimum on her card each month. Her debt was mounting, but she ignored that, pushing it to one side. He was worth it, she told herself. And she had even . . . well, this was a big secret, one she hugged to herself with great glee, but she had even bought herself a ring, an engagement ring. She kept it well hidden from Noel and from George, but at work she wore it, told everyone that George had whisked her off to Paris and proposed to her there; it had been so romantic, and all the girls at work were pea-green with envy.

The sad truth was that on her last break what she’d really done was sit indoors watching telly while Noel got doped off his head. There had been no trips on the Seine, no Paris-by-night. In fact, no fuck-all.

‘Yeah, but look . . .’ George was struggling with this. To get expensive gifts from women made his skin crawl, made him feel demeaned, made him feel like a fucking oily gigolo. He had gone into the escort biz for the money. He had expected that sex with women would be a part of that equation, and that was okay. Not that Sandy had ever indicated she wanted that. All she ever seemed to want was to sit here, in this same restaurant, boring the arse off him with tales of her deadly dull little life.

‘I like buying you things,’ said Sandy, giving him a flirtatious look.

‘I know you do. And I appreciate it, but I would really rather you didn’t, okay?’

Sandy sat back and looked at him. ‘I’ve read about male escorts up West being given apartments. Sports cars. Exotic holidays,’ she said.

‘Yeah, I know, and I’d hate that,’ said George emphatically. He didn’t want the silly tart getting herself deep in debt and then blaming it on him.

Now there was a glint of tears in her eyes. She looked down at her half-eaten tiramisu then back up at George.

Shit, now I’ve upset her, thought George. Well, maybe that was a good thing. Sandy was beginning, ever so slightly, to give him the dry heaves. He decided that the next time she sent one of her emails with the cute smiley faces and the hugs and kisses, he was going to press the delete button.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said in her small, childish voice.

‘It’s okay,’ said George, smiling reassuringly. Get this evening over, and he’d be gone. Enough of Sandy and her creepy, insidious little ways. He had plenty of other clients – straightforward, successful businesswomen with plenty of cash to splash and lonely evenings to fill. He’d stick with those. Sometimes there was a little problem with the sex, which he wouldn’t admit to a living soul, but he could do it. He told himself that, over and over. He could do it. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I had to say it, okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Sandy weakly, prodding the tiramisu with her spoon.

‘You’re a lovely girl, Sandy,’ said George.

She brightened then, raised a small smile.

‘I hope I haven’t offended you,’ said George. He really did hope that he hadn’t. He wanted a nice clear line drawn under this. No hassles. No comebacks.

‘No. You haven’t,’ she said, and Sandy started eating again.

* * *

‘Good night?’ asked Alfie, looking up from the sofa as George came into the lounge, shucking off his coat. The telly was on; the flat was warm and cosy. Harry was out on a job.

George tossed the box of chocolates down beside Alfie. ‘Here,’ he said.

‘What, did the client give you these?’ asked Alfie, pulling off the ribbon greedily.

George made a face. ‘She did.’ He looked at the roses that Alfie had put in a vase. ‘And I wish you’d flung those bloody things.’

‘I couldn’t just bin them: they’re nice,’ said Alfie, diving into the chocolates headfirst.

George watched Alfie chomping away and had to smile.

‘You’ll get gut-ache, eating this late in the day,’ said George, yawning. ‘I’m all in, I’m off to bed. G’night, mate.’

‘Night, George,’ said Alfie, past a mouthful of caramel and chocolate.

George was awoken in the small hours of the night by Alfie crying from the lounge.

Oh fuck, he thought, his heart breaking into a fast canter. He lay there in the dark, remembering the last time he’d gone in to see Alfie. Remembering Alfie kissing him, and remembering that he, George Doyle, had responded, and would have gone further – much, much further – if he hadn’t come to his senses in time.

No, no. He wasn’t going down that blind alley again.

He turned over, pulled the pillow over his head, blotting out the sound. Let Harry go in and see to him – if he was back yet, which George sort of doubted; he usually heard Harry’s key in the door, and he hadn’t.

No. He wasn’t going in there. Alfie would probably wake himself up in a moment with all the noise he was making. And then he’d go back to sleep. It would all be okay.

George lay there. He could still hear Alfie’s cries, and they made George feel sick and anxious for him. It felt like hours, lying there, tense and tormented, wanting to go to him, but frightened to. Finally – it seemed to take forever – Alfie was quiet, and slowly, inch by inch, George relaxed, and was starting to drift off to sleep when he heard his bedroom door click open, then shut.

Oh no.

‘George?’ It was Alfie, coming to the bed, slipping under the covers, snuggling up against him. At the contact, George felt as if someone had plugged his entire body into the mains and fried him alive. His whole skin was suddenly, intensely, sensitized. He always slept naked, couldn’t bear to wear boxers or pyjamas or anything on him at night – although he kept a spare pair in his bottom drawer, in case of emergencies. And . . . oh fuck it, Alfie was nude too. He could feel Alfie’s smooth, lightly muscled nakedness pressing against him, could feel Alfie’s arm reaching across his chest, burning a trail of fire in its wake.

Oh God.

‘I had the dreams, George,’ said Alfie, burrowing his head in under George’s chin, the warm brush of that thick corn-gold hair and the sweet salty scent of Alfie’s skin sending George’s senses into a whirling nosedive. ‘Why didn’t you come? I had the fucking dreams . . .’ Alfie half sobbed.

George swallowed hard. He felt like he was way up on the top board at the swimming pool, getting ready to dive in . . . or fall off. This was what he’d been afraid of. Finding out the thing about himself that for years he had been trying so hard to ignore.

‘It’s okay, Alf,’ he managed to get out. ‘It’s okay, I’m here.’

He hugged Alfie hard against him, squeezed him tight.

Oh, such a feeling. George closed his eyes and gave himself up to it.