“That’s not true. You coped when Jago Andrewartha gave you a lift up here, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but—”
“You’re not your father, Mal. No one ever is—I know for a fact I’m bloody well not mine. You can’t judge yourself like that. You’re not a failure just because something affects you differently than it would him.” Jory leaned forward cautiously, afraid Mal might bolt, and laid his hands gently on Mal’s. “You’re more sensitive than he is, perhaps. Is that supposed to be a bad thing?” He took a deep breath. “From everything you’ve said to me, it’s your mother who’s been the greater influence on you.”
Mal gave a bitter half-laugh, but at least he didn’t pull away again. “Yeah. Proper mummy’s boy, that’s me.”
“Bollocks,” Jory said firmly, startling Mal into looking directly at him. “You’re not exactly hiding behind her skirts by coming here, are you? I was talking about your interest in history and legend. The way they fire your imagination. That’s what I think you get from your mother.” He’d wanted to add, your intelligence, but was wary of seeming to criticise Mal’s father.
“Yeah, well. I let her down, and all.”
“Have you asked her if that’s what she thinks? Because from what you’ve told me about her, I very much doubt it.” Jory drew Mal closer and wrapped his arms around him, wishing he dared pull him all the way onto his lap. “You should think about counselling, you know. It might help.”
Mal shrugged. “Had a bit back in London. Just . . . the woman kept wanting me to talk about it, and that’s the last thing I wanted, innit? Felt like a total wuss, sitting in her office snivelling into a box of tissues for an hour a week.”
“Maybe she wasn’t the right counsellor. You could try again with someone you get on with better . . .” Mal grimaced. Jory frowned. “It doesn’t make you less of a man, you know, accepting help when you need it. You didn’t hesitate last night, did you? You realised you needed help, and you made sure you got it.”
“Yeah, but . . . that’s different, innit? I was stuck in a hole in the ground.” Mal made a face. “And I never said I don’t feel like a stupid prat about it.”
“Good.” Jory almost laughed at Mal’s shocked expression, but an unexpected burst of anger flooded through him, drowning the brief impulse. “For God’s sake, walking on the cliffs in the pouring rain, in the dark, while drunk, in a place where you know the ground’s given way at some point in the past already? That’s pretty much the definition of being a stupid prat.” He took a deep breath. “But calling for help? That was not being a prat. And definitely not stupid. So will you at least think about it? Getting another counsellor?”
“I . . .” Mal hunched into himself for a moment, then straightened in Jory’s arms. “Wanna do a deal? I’ll have another go at seeing someone, and you give the Tintagel trip another try? With, uh, me, I mean. I’ll try not to flip out this time.” Mal gave a weak smile with more than a hint of desperation in his eyes. “Good job we’re both used to me fucking stuff up, innit?”
“Stop putting yourself down.” Jory squeezed him tight. “And remind me to point you to some reading on toxic masculinity.”
“Oi, you ain’t a teacher yet. No handing out homework.” Mal’s smile strengthened and warmed Jory’s heart absurdly.
Then it faltered again. “Yeah, but still . . . how’s it gonna work? You and me living hundreds of miles apart?” Mal studied the surface of the table.
Jory leaned forward and took Mal’s face in his hand, encouraging him to look up. “We don’t have to sort out all the details right now. You’re here for a while longer, aren’t you?”
Mal nodded. “Six weeks was the plan. I’m not even halfway through that.”
“Well, then. We can see how it goes. See what works for us.”
“And if it don’t?”
“We’ll make it work.” To hell with it. Jory pulled Mal onto his lap. “If you go back to London after that, I can still travel to see you. And you’ll get your counselling, or whatever it takes so you can do your job again, and then you’ll be able to travel down here easily. Or we can meet in the middle, or anywhere we want.”
“What if I never get okay to be a Tube driver again? And I keep on being a wuss about getting in cars and stuff?”
“If it comes down to it, there are jobs here. Um, mostly concerned with the tourist industry, but it’d be a start. Something to do while you think about the next step. Or, well, I don’t think the museum has filled the vacancy I’ll be leaving yet.”
“Don’t you have to know stuff to work in a museum?”
“You’d be amazed at the number of serious historical discussions I haven’t had since I started working there. But you could read up on naval history. You’re bright enough—for God’s sake, you’ve read the Morte d’Arthur. Most people take one look at the archaic language and decide to watch the Disney film instead.”
“I ain’t saying it didn’t take me a while.”
“But you did it. And anyway, that was just an idea. If you decide to leave London.” Jory kissed him because he could. “Whatever it takes, we’ll make it work.”
He felt the tension go out of Mal’s body, and wanted to punch the air. He’d done it. He’d convinced him.
Then Mal’s phone rang.
Mal was a bit pissed off when he got the call, cos he’d been on cloud nine and he’d had a feeling him and Jory had been about to have a truly epic snog, but there was a good chance it was Mum ringing to tell him
