I speak in smoke signals and you answer in code
by Sandrine Shaw
Dinner with MP Charles Forsythe is always a tedious affair, necessary to maintain a good accord with the man, but hardly pleasurable. Forsythe likes to hear himself talk, dragging on and on about personal matters and little anecdotes that are as inconsequential as they're boring.
Tom takes a measured sip of his drink and lets his eyes roam around the restaurant, briefly lingering, two tables over, on the actress from a soap his mother likes to watch and whose name he can't remember, and the economist he recently bickered with on a TV panel who's now sharing a bottle of wine with a young blonde Tom knows for a fact is not his wife.
He doesn't pay attention to the couple who just stepped through the door, exchanging pleasantries with the hostess – not until Forsythe stops in his tracks and waves. Tom follows his line of sight and freezes.
There are hints of grey at the man's temples and the neatly trimmed beard is new, as is the fitted designer suit, but even though it's been twenty-two years since Tom last saw him at Hector's funeral, it takes him less than a minute to recognize Dakin. Their eyes meet across the room, and for a split-second Dakin's assured smile falters as a flurry of emotions crosses his face. Surprise. Recognition. Something that might, possibly, be regret. Then the mask of confidence is back in place, so fast that Tom wonders if he only imagined that he saw it slip to begin with.
He barely has time to gather his wits before Dakin and his companion have made their way over to his table and Forsythe gets up to greet them.
"Stuart, what a wonderful surprise to see you here! And your lovely fiancée!" He effusively kisses the woman's hand before turning to Tom. "Irwin, this is Stuart Dakin, the best tax lawyer in Westminster."
Dakin's smile turns mischievous and his eyes flicker to Tom. "Oh, we're acquainted."
He holds out his hand for Tom to shake, and lets his grip linger for a moment longer than is proper. Long, infuriatingly soft-skinned fingers give Tom's a firm squeeze, like the conspiratorial acknowledgment of a shared secret. "Hello, sir. Fancy meeting you here."
Forsythe makes no attempt to hide his curiosity. "You've done business together, then?"
Tom can't turn his eyes away from Dakin and the way his lips curl in amusement. Dakin doesn't contradict Forsythe's assumption, and Tom gets the impression that he's being dared to delve into their history together. He raises an eyebrow at Dakin – challenge accepted – and turns to Forsythe.
"I used to be his teacher, actually. Just before he went off to Oxford to lay the foundation of becoming London's finest tax lawyer, and I got myself into this chair."
Dakin laughs quietly. "Now, don't sell yourself short, sir. I know for a fact that you've accomplished plenty since the good old days at Cutler's."
Heat rises to Tom's cheeks at the implication that Dakin's been following his career. He hasn't done the same thing. It's not that he's never been tempted to look Dakin up, see what he's been up to since his Oxford days, but he's always resisted the urge. It doesn't surprise him that Dakin had no such reservations; out of the two of them he's always been the braver one.
Dakin turns to the redhead at his side. "Where are my manners? This is Sarah, my girlfriend." He's still looking at Tom when he introduces them. The qualifier feels pointed, especially after Forsythe called her his fiancée, and Tom wonders if Dakin felt the need to correct the assumption for his sake. He chides himself for the silliness of the thought, but he can't quite shake it off.
Sarah, for her part, appears to take about thirty seconds to decide that she dislikes Tom. She doesn't object when Forsythe suggests they share dinner and celebrate this long-overdue reunion, and her manners remain immaculate during the remainder of the night, but on the rare occasion that she speaks to Tom, her tone grows frosty and her eyes appear to be measuring him in a cool, almost disdainful way. For some reason, the idea pleases him, even though he tells himself that it's no accomplishment of any kind to be hated by Dakin's girlfriend.
When Dakin excuses himself to go to the men's room, leaving Tom alone with Sarah and Forsythe, she unexpectedly addresses him.
"You know, Stuart never talks about you," she says. It's an odd statement, and the casual way she tells him sounds artificial and strained.
He doesn't quite know what to make of it, so he merely shrugs and awkwardly explains, "It's only school. Nothing exciting. A long time ago."
She smiles, amused and derisive. "Oh no, that's not what I mean. He talks about school all the time. He just never talks about you. When you were on that history programme and God forbid I accidentally switch it on, he'd change the channel immediately." There's no time for Tom to properly digest that bit of information, because she presses on, her eyes never leaving his face. "I used to think there was some sort of bad blood between the two of you."
He mistakes the statement for a question and hastens to deny it. "No. No, nothing of that sort. We actually got on quite well."
"Yes, I realize that," she says, and her smile turns a fraction colder. She reaches for her glass and takes a sip from her wine, but over the rim, her eyes hold Tom's, unwavering.
"I saw Irwin last night," Stuart tells Scripps on the phone the next day, like an afterthought, like it's not the reason he called in the first place.
When no further information is forthcoming, Scripps asks, "And?"
Dakin huffs. "And nothing. I just ran into him while having dinner with a client." He neglects to mention that he actually ended up having dinner with Irwin, just as he neglects to mention Sarah's presence or the temper tantrum she threw on the way home. "I told him to call me if he needed a tax lawyer."
On the other end of the line, Scripps snorts. "I assume that was a euphemism?"
"No," Stuart says, too quickly. Even he, who'd always been the master of denial and self-deception, knows that it's a lie. "Yes. Maybe. Fuck, I don't know. I just want him to call."
His voice is strumming with the same kind of frustrated impatience that used to be there all those years ago, like he expects the world to resolve around him and bend to his will, and he doesn't understand why it won't always work like that. Scripps sighs. "Of course you do," he says.
Some things, he supposes, never change.
Stuart's out for dinner with Sarah, trying to smooth over whatever cracks have been showing in their relationship since the other night. Fifteen years ago, he wouldn't have bothered. Hell, even five years ago he'd probably have shrugged it off and called it quits, telling himself he didn't need that kind of unnecessary drama in his life. But he's been with Sarah for almost three years now, and he figures he maybe owes it to their relationship – and to his mother, who's been dropping hints about grandchildren for longer than he cares to acknowledge – to try and work things out.
He's just being an adult, that's all.
(There's a scathing voice in the back of his head that offers scornful laughter at the thought and tells him there's a difference between being an adult and being a coward, and it sounds a bit like Pos. Not the old Posner from Cutler's, a bit shy and passionate and utterly besotted with him, but the jaded, ruthlessly honest version of himself he's become over the years. Stuart ignores the voice, in the same way he's made a habit of ignoring Posner whenever he's been inconvenient.)
Stuart's phone rings just as dessert arrives. It's an unfamiliar number, and he almost doesn't take the call, almost thumbs the red button and slides his phone back into his jacket. But his fingers are faster than his mind, and he hits 'accept' before he makes a conscious choice.
Silence greets him at the other end of the line.
"Hello?"
A sharp intake of breath. Then, "Dakin. Hello."
The corners of his mouth twitch and the rush of satisfaction he feels makes him more light-headed than the two glasses of wine he's had. "Hello, sir. Just a moment."
"I'm sorry, is this a bad time?" Irwin asks, and Stuart smiles. It figures that even when Irwin's the one who made contact, he's still all too eager for a way out. Well, too bad, because Stuart doesn't intend to give him one.
"No, not at all. I just need to find a less noisy spot."
If he hadn't looked at Sarah to offer her an apologetic smile, he might have missed the way her jaw tightens and her fists are clenching in the napkin. Her glare follows him when he gets up and heads outside, where the persistent hum of conversation and clinking of cutlery doesn't reach and no one will overhear the conversation.
It's a cool, rainy night; he huddles close to the door so he won't get soaked within seconds.
"I didn't think you'd call." He shakes a fag out of the box and holds it between his lips, his left hand fumbling with the lighter while trying not to drop the phone into the puddles of rain water at his feet. It takes him several attempts, and when he finally succeeds, he draws a long, deep drag, relieved at the familiar way the smoke hits the back of his throat.
The pause has stretched for so long that Stuart wonders if the connection cut off, but then, finally, Irwin concedes, "I wasn't going to."
"I'm glad you did," Stuart says, and it feels less like an admission and more like an attack. It's like he said that day, years and years ago, when he handed in his essay: Some people make a move, others react to events. Stuart's always been more comfortable with action than reaction, preferring to steer events and conversations rather than be forced to follow someone's lead.
Irwin seems to be at a loss at how to react. "You do? Oh. I – I don't actually need a tax lawyer. I'm with Royce and Caplan. I'm quite happy with their services."
"Well, I guess I could tell you to ditch them because they're not half as good as I am so you're probably losing money, and also because Royce is a massive wanker. But to be fair, I'm not actually looking to take you on as a client." He doesn't socialize with his clients, not outside of what's strictly necessary, and the idea of having his interaction with Irwin limited to polite, professional small talk makes his stomach churn in distaste.
Irwin breathes an amused huff. He doesn't appear to be surprised by Stuart's admission, and he doesn't hesitate to zero in on the false pretence under which Stuart got him to make contact. "What exactly are you looking for, then?"
Stuart doesn't know what he expected. Not for Irwin to be quite this blunt, probably, not after all the time they spent talking in euphemisms and metaphors. He runs a hand through his rain-wet hair, and his laughter is a little shaky. "Hell if I know," he mutters, more honest than he intends to be.
It only takes him a moment to gather his wits again. Louder, with some of his usual confidence returned, he says, "How about a chance to catch up?"
Tom almost doesn't go, just like he almost didn't call.
This isn't him anymore: unsure, fumbling through social interaction, second-guessing himself. It's almost like the run-in with Dakin made him regress to the man he used to be when he was teaching at Cutler's, opening up old insecurities and half-forgotten longing like wounds that have never quite healed.
He arrives at the pub half an hour early because he prefers having some time to familiarize himself with the location, being able to take his time navigating the wheelchair through the place. It shouldn't have surprised him to find Dakin already seated in a corner booth with a glass of whiskey in front of him, blowing smoke up in the air and watching the door with an intensity that would look pathetic and awkward on most men drinking alone. Not Dakin, of course. Tom would bet Dakin has never had any first-hand experience with pathetic and awkward in all of his life.
A flash of satisfaction crosses Dakin's face when he spots Tom, and he feels trapped by the gaze, sweat prickling under his collar and a flush on his cheeks that will hopefully remain hidden under the pub's dim lighting.
The table turns out to be easily accessible, and Tom wonders if it's consideration or coincidence that made Dakin pick it.
"You're here early."
It's supposed to put Dakin on the defensive, but he just offers a shrug and blatantly lies through his teeth, "I finished work early. Figured I might as well wait here than waste time at the office."
"Convenient," Tom comments, making sure his tone conveys that he knows Dakin's full of shit. The grin he receives in response is shameless, and startlingly familiar, and he finds himself thrown back twenty-odd years. He sharply draws in air, breathing in the smoke Dakin blows in his direction. "You like it, then? Being a tax lawyer?"
"Sure. What's not to like? It's easy enough, and it pays well." There's challenge in the raised eyebrow and the wry half-smile he levels at Tom. "You told me I'd be happy anywhere, didn't you?"
"That's not quite what I said."
"It's what you meant," Dakin fires back, and Tom can't exactly deny it.
Doesn't mean he can't push back. "Are you, then? Happy?"
Dakin takes a drag from his cigarette and averts his eyes as he flicks off the ash. He takes his time responding, but Tom's been a journalist for long enough that he can wait him out. Or thinks he can, anyway.
"Remember my essay about turning points in history?" Dakin asks at last, and Tom realizes that he's not going to get an answer to his question.
He hums in non-committal affirmation. It's easy to see where this is going, and he wishes he had the strength of will to stop it. But he never had, with Dakin. He's not sure anyone ever did, if the only person who's ever denied Dakin anything wasn't Dakin himself.
"Funny how Hector's accident turned out to be one of those, isn't it?"
"Funny is not the word I'd use," Tom says wryly, pointedly looking down at his wheelchair.
If he hoped to make Dakin stumble, he was miscalculating. All Dakin does is roll his eyes. "Come on, sir. You know I didn't mean it like that. But if the accident had never happened, things would have gone differently, wouldn't they? We'd have gone for that drink, for one. I do wonder, sometimes, where we'd be now."
"Not here," Tom says, but what he means is: not anywhere together. They'd have had that drink and perhaps a quick, graceless fumble in the bathroom or even at Tom's old place at Bowman Drive, before Dakin would have hurried home without meeting Tom's eyes. And if they had ever run into one another, years later, they would have politely greeted each other and went their different ways, embarrassed by their shared history.
Tom can picture it – has pictured it all unfolding, and he knows it's better the way things went. Despite the accident, despite the chair, despite the bittersweet almost that he can't shake off.
Dakin raises a curious eyebrow at the finality in his tone, and Tom shrugs. "That's the thing about subjunctive history, isn't it? It's all very theoretical. A fancy way of getting lost in 'what if's. Interesting, certainly, but ultimately pointless and escapist."
His tone is scathing, so he's not sure why Dakin is smiling, sharp and pleased.
"Thought about it a lot, have you, sir?"
For the first time in years, Tom genuinely regrets the wheelchair. If his legs worked the way they were supposed to, he'd get up and walk out rather than be trapped under the weight of Dakin's knowing stare for one more second. But they don't.
So he stays.
Monday night, when Stuart comes home, he almost stumbles over Sarah's suitcases. As he watches her gather her things, he chooses not to examine where exactly the sense of relief that grips him is coming from.
His attempts at stopping her from leaving are half-hearted at best, perfunctory and designed to fail. "I don't get where this is suddenly coming from," he says, perfectly aware of how obnoxious he sounds.
"I've seen the way you look at him, Stu." She doesn't bother to specify who she's talking about. "You haven't looked at me like that in two years."
Stuart tries to laugh it off. Of course he does. "You want me to look at you like I look at my old teacher?"
The expression on Sarah's face tells him that she doesn't appreciate the humor. "I want you to look at me like you want me. Like I'm the most important thing in the room. I don't know what's going on with you and that guy, if he's... I don't know, the one who got away or if you're going through some mid-life crisis and suddenly want to be eighteen again, and I don't really care. This thing here –" she motions between herself and Stuart. "It's not going anywhere. And let's not kid ourselves, it wasn't really going anywhere before your Mr. Horrible Histories showed up."
For a moment, she looks at him like she's waiting for him to deny it.
He doesn't.
It's the middle of the night when Tom's phone goes off. In the darkness of his bedroom, hands sluggish with sleep, he fumbles for his glasses. Dakin's number lights up the screen. It's almost two in the morning.
"Sarah broke up with me. This is your fault," is the first thing Dakin says. No 'hello', no 'sorry I woke you up', as if social conventions are for lesser people.
He doesn't sound drunk, but not quite sober either, the mellow in-between where inhibitions are lowered and it's altogether too easy to say things one might be better off not speaking out loud. In vino veritas is only good advice if you believe that speaking the truth is generally something to aim for.
Tom presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to convince himself that it would serve them both better if he told Dakin to go to sleep and ended the call before either of them says something they'll regret in the morning. But the response is already on his tongue. "While I got the impression that she wasn't overly fond of me, I am reasonably sure that it's your fault your girlfriend ended the relationship. It's been a long time, but I know for a fact that you were taught the difference between a cause and a trigger."
He can't quite resist adding, "You can't put the entire blame of World War II on the invasion of Poland" because it's such a poetic irony to bring them full circle like that, bring out the tired old metaphor one last time.
On the other end of the line, Dakin chuckles. "Still trying to teach me lessons about how history unfolds, sir?"
"Dakin –"
Dakin cuts him off before he can even start to object. "Stuart. We're not at Cutler's and you're not my teacher anymore. It's two in the morning, and my girlfriend walked out on me because of the way I look at you. You can bloody well call me by my first name."
"You're the one who keeps calling me 'sir'," Irwin points out.
"Come one, you like it." A pause. Then, like a cheeky afterthought, "Sir."
Tom takes in a sharp breath that he's sure Dakin – Stuart isn't going to miss. He closes his eyes and wills himself to be less affected by the way Stuart's voice curls around the word, smug and a bit breathy and full of dark promise.
"Have a drink with me." The easy confidence in Stuart's voice is as infuriating as it is reassuring, and Tom is tempted – so very tempted – to agree. But not even Poland simply gave in when they were invaded.
"We already did have a drink together," Tom points out, because he's contrary and prickly and tired of euphemisms.
Perhaps he's just imagining it, but he thinks he hears fond exasperation in the way Stuart huffs at the objection. "Fine, not a drink, then." An odd softness creeps into Stuart's voice, not quite uncertain, not quite imploring, but close enough. It sounds so foreign rolling off Stuart's tongue that Tom takes notice, and he decides that he likes it. "Let's have dinner. Just you and me. See where it goes."
It's vague enough that it doesn't promise anything Stuart won't keep, and honest enough that Tom can't keep his defences up.
"Alright," he quietly agrees. "Let's see where it goes."
End.