Chapter One: "Fairies on the Doorstep"

It was about six weeks after Gethin had started in the shop that the man first came in.

Difficult not to notice him, the tinkle of the bell as the door opened, the shop quiet. But you would notice him anyway, he had a presence... six feet of charisma, shaggy blond hair, gold as honey, dark brown eyes, a face that had seen lots of life, to judge from the laugh-and-cry lines, an inbuilt swagger and the most stupid coat and beret combo Gethin had ever seen... if he was trying to pass for gay, he'd missed by a mile, he looked more like Frank Spencer.

Hmm... Frank Spencer's bigger, stronger, more handsome brother. Much more handsome.

After making a cursory tour of the shelves, hands stuffed into trouser pockets and holding back the dire beige coat, the man approached the counter.

'Good afternoon,' he said in rich, perfectly modulated tones. 'Have you got "Fairies on the Doorstep", by any chance?'

Oh, right, he was one of those types. Pity.

'Not last time I looked, no,' Gethin said, trying to be polite because, after all, the man was gorgeous and you could always educate ignorance, couldn't you?

'No? That's a shame. Lucy Walker, 1948, Sydney, Australian Publishing Company, sometimes attributed to Dorothy Sanders... I wanted a copy for my nieces...'

Of course it was a real book. And, of course, it wasn't one he stocked...

'I'm very sorry... I can ask around, see if I can find you a copy, but it's probably out of print by now... besides, you might do better with a more mainstream bookshop...'

'Do I look mainstream?' the man asked, taking his hands out of his pockets and spreading them wide, an invitation to inspection the glory of his open-necked lavender shirt and tight black trousers.

Gethin found he had to swallow before he could answer.

'Um... No, not exactly. So... do you want to leave your number? In case I can track down the book for you...'

'Don't worry about it. I'll see if I can steal one from a library somewhere.' The man smiled, lips closed, no teeth showing. 'A joke... Thanks for your time.'

And the bell hanging from the door chimed softly on his way out, leaving Gethin feeling like he'd failed, somehow.

So, during his quiet moments when the shop was empty, he began looking through catalogues, handlists, and in his free time began browsing in other bookshops, second hand ones, in libraries, just to see if he could find the damn book, just in case Mr-Not-Mainstream-Frank-Spencer-On-Steroids-And-Beautiful came back...

And although he didn't find 'Fairies on the Doorstep', he did find a few other interesting titles, so interesting that he even went so far as to compile a list, bashing out a typed copy after hours on his old portable typewriter in the flat above the shop.

After a week, he gave up hope of ever seeing the man again. That week had taken years, decades, to live through for him. But a week was a reasonable length of time to spend daydreaming, he thought, determined to move his mind on from that honey-haired, honey-voiced man. After all, a person might only be in town once a week... and in all that long, long seven-day century, only Gethin's list had sustained him, the titles on it that would never find their way onto his shelves but that might, just might, be a useful reference source for other jokers... for that's what he thought now with a sad sense of defeat, that the man had only been making fun, picking an actual title so he could claim he wasn't making a sly and unkind joke at Gethin's expense.

Better than a brick through the window, paint-sprayed insults on the glass maybe, but, somehow a bit more painful. It felt personal.

Nine days later, when the door chimed and in walked the Beret of Ridiculous and beige Coat of Disaster, wrapped around the glorious form of a tall and broad shaggy blond man and this time decorated with a brightly striped knitted scarf, Gethin almost dropped the books he was moving to the shelves in shock.

Calm. Why was he not calm, why was his heart hammering, his mouth dry...?

And where was his list...?

On the shelf under the counter, where he put it at the start of every day, just in case he needed it.

Gethin unfolded the paper, smoothed it out ready to consult at a moment's notice.

A friendly nod, that tight-lipped smile that somehow looked more tempting on this man than a glorious grin on any other face ever could.

'Morning.'

'Hello again. Fairies, wasn't it...?'

'Oh,' almost casually, 'you remembered?'

'It's been a bit quiet so I've had time for looking... I can get you a copy if you wanted, it'll have to be imported, and it's a collectible, so it would be expensive... and it'd take a few weeks to get here...'

'If it didn't get intercepted by Customs. Title like that, who knows what people might think?'

'What, indeed?' Gethin said, feeling vaguely light-headed and now just wanting to keep this man talking as long as he could. 'So, is that a 'no', then?'

'I think so. Probably for the best. But thank you anyway.'

'Is there anything else I can interest you in?'

Had those brown eyes widened, mocking, at the simple question? Flickered up and down over Gethin's face, his body... Oh, damn, had he read it the wrong way?

'Perhaps.' The smile again. 'Can you get hold of "Scouts in Bondage", do you think?'

Gethin kept his bookshop face carefully neutral but inwardly was doing a triumphant war-dance... that was one of the titles he'd found, and then researched, just in case...

'Well, "Scouting for Boys" is easier, so they say... you meant the Geoffrey Prout one, 1930, or 1935? I can track down a 1935 for you, it's a bit foxed...'

('Aren't we all, dear?' the man muttered.)

'...but it's likely to be upward of £60.00... very rare, first edition... Are you a collector of books?'

'Some books.'

Now the smile was genuinely amused, reaching the worldly-wise brown eyes... was this possibly just a game, not a joke, or poking fun, but an elaborate, friendly game, after all...? If so, Gethin could keep playing for a while... as long as his list was in sight...

'Well,' he suggested. 'Since "Fairies on the Doorstep" is too rich for you, there's always "Enid Blyton's Gay Story Book", 1946...'

'Oh, and who might that be by...?'

Gethin grinned.

'Published by Hodder and Stoughton.'

The man laughed.

'What else can you offer me?'

'What are you looking for?'

A smile and a nod and a glint in the rich, brown eyes.

'I'll give it some thought and let you know.'

And he was gone with a swish of coat and a tinkle of the bell.

Gethin sank onto the stool behind the counter and drew in a deep and shuddering breath. He'd come back, he had, and they had talked and... what had they talked about, had it been meaningful, beneath all the double-meanings? Was there a chance of something, anything?

The bell chimed into his awareness and he got to his feet. One of his regulars, member of one of the groups that used the back room, smiling, friendly... flirty, even... Peter, that was his name.

'Gethin, my dear, well, I did enjoy that one; well written, nicely informed... have you anything by the same author...?'

'Let me look for you... they'd would be over here, these shelves... if not, I can always see what else he's got out, order a copy...'

'That's lovely, very helpful... Tell me, was that Jonathan leaving here just now?'

'Who?'

'Jonathan. Jonathan Blake? No? Oh, I'm sure you'd know if it had been him, always leaves an impression... tall, beret, usually a scarf that doesn't go, but he doesn't care...?'

'There was someone a bit like that. Didn't buy anything, though.'

'Well... Ooh, yes, I'll have this one... best wrap it for me, they do go extreme with the covers these days, don't they...? So what did he want?'

'Sorry?'

'Jonathan. Hmm?'

'Ah,' Gethin took money, gave change, wrapped the book twice round in a large white paper bag. 'I told you, I'm not even sure it was your friend. Anyway, he didn't buy anything.'

'Oh, trust me, Jonathan never does anything without a reason. Just because he didn't buy anything doesn't mean he didn't want something...'

Gethin shrugged, tight lipped.

'Like I say, I don't...'

'Listen I saw the beret and the scarf swish around the corner just before I arrived; there aren't two men in London – the country even – who can pull off that look, who would even try. It was Jonathan, it had to be. Well, good luck with him; I hear he's a bit spoken for at the moment, but that can change very quickly with him.'

'Well, I...'

Gethin had never been more relieved to be interrupted by a customer coming in, looking lost, needing attention.

'Excuse me. Customer.'

Peter nodded.

'We'll have to have a drink sometime,' he said over his shoulder as he left. 'Since you're not bothered about Jonathan. If you like.'

'I don't know,' he said stupidly, because Peter wasn't a bad sort, pretty fit, really, seemed all right. 'Perhaps. Maybe.'

He'd steered the customer at the free leaflets about support groups and activities, busy with help and advice which wasn't strictly speaking part of the job, except it was, because where else could you find out about these things? and the conversation with Peter, the invitation slipped his mind until later, when he was alone in the shop once more.

It made him wonder. If Peter had asked him out a few weeks ago, he'd have agreed at once, free spirit, all of London to play in, and all that, but now, somehow... no. Not disinterested, just... not interested.

Perhaps because he felt a bit more settled now, the neighbourhood becoming familiar, the neighbours reasonably tolerant. Less alone, so no need to accept the first offer that came along, especially when he had a tongue in his head and could do his own asking out.

Not that he did, really. Busy, the back room meetings, the shop. Yes, he went out, had fun, a few encounters, but nothing that mattered. No blonds. Especially not tall and strong blonds with an incredible-edible close-mouthed smile.

Another week went by. A second. Bonfire night, and he was grateful that nobody decided the shop could do with a few fireworks through the letter box or the window. And then the run up to Christmas, just another marketing opportunity, really, fake tree in the window, Christmas crackers on it, tinsel, and just a star on top in the hopes of avoiding all the obvious jokes... busy in the last few days, last minute gifts, topping up the leaflets – everyone seemed to suddenly need all the leaflets, just before the party season began... so busy, Gethin hardly noticed the longest night come and go, but then, suddenly, it was Christmas, the shop shut up, a cold and quiet time with too much vodka and not enough company but that was the modern world for you...

No blonds.

No Frank-Spencer-esque visitations.

So when Peter asked him out, again, in the odd sad days between Christmas and New Year's Eve, he accepted, sort of, spent an uncomfortable evening in the pub until another man joined them at the bar, flirting with Peter until Gethin bought them each a pint and told them to get on with it.

'No hard feelings,' he said.

'Well, that's apparent,' Peter said, 'but...'

'Season of goodwill, and all that. I'm lousy company, anyway,' Gethin said. 'Come round the shop soon, tell me how you get on.'

'Still friends?'

'Course.'

But though he thought he'd managed not to ruin the friendship – which wasn't much of a friendship anyway, he was still no nearer peace of mind, so two nights later, he gave himself a good talking to, decided to come out of his bookshop shell self and hit the town big style...

Life and soul, he was, flirting easily, popular, suddenly, finding he already knew a lot of the faces by sight at least, from meetings, from the shop, all they'd been waiting for was for him to drop his guard a little, and he lost count of the drinks bought him, the drinks he bought, the taxis home to strange parts of town, the furtive journeys home in the grey mornings, still in last night's happy clothes, and suddenly the year had turned and he was packing away the decorations and staring at the Christmas crackers... yes, that had been him. Getting pulled left, right and centre over Christmas, put it back in its box now, Gethin, until next December...

Maybe not quite that long.

But, really, it had been fun.

Hadn't it?