George Pontmareau, his name is, and despite the French sounding name, he's English. From Norfolk, actually - Douglas had met the bloke whilst in med school, and he'd been working in a book shop, at the time. Douglas recalls it well, sidling down the streets of Cambridge and slipping into one shop or another: by no means was it difficult, at the time, for him to afford his textbooks, but by no sensible means did that mean he wanted to pay full price for them. That is where George had come in: he'd been just slightly younger than Douglas, and quite charmed by his attentions at the handy second hand little store.
Still works in a book shop, though now his location has now changed slightly: Chicago. An American friend had become a boyfriend, and then a fiancé, and then a husband - though sadly the American part had remained unchanged - and George had moved home with him.
And George, from all Douglas has heard, adores the place, adores the baseball, the loudness, the brightness, the city… All except for one issue: cheese. While hardly a connoisseur, George, as he has all the time Douglas has known him, has a particular fondness for cheddar.
And according to him, the Americans do the cheddar "wrong".
So when they get a cargo flight to the windy city, Douglas puts the cheese sandwich aside in the galley, keeps it refrigerated - it's a simple gesture, nothing to come of it, in truth. He just wants to see the idiot's big grin when he sees the thing, without butter.
But, as so often happens in The Good Life, as enjoyed by Douglas Richardson, things go rather better than he'd hoped.
George takes the sandwich with utter delight, eating it and talking around it in a disgusting fashion that reminds Douglas of Arthur, and Douglas is indulgent. George insists it can't go unrewarded, though, and then he slips into the back and returns with a first edition, signed, of the fourth Harry Potter book. Ordinarily, Douglas might have refused so pleasant a gesture but-
He does know a young Potterhead that lives in Fitton, and they're flying back tonight. So he takes it, graciously, and gives the ridiculous fellow a friendly hug before making his way home. Besides, Douglas might not be especially interested in the fantasy of youths, but even he knows the fourth book of such a popular series isn't so indulgent a gesture – it's likely been on George's shelf with the vague intention of its being sold onto a collector for a while now.
"New novel, is it, Douglas?" Martin regards him with obvious amusement as Douglas sets the thing aside, and Douglas hums. He does like it when Martin teases – he doesn't usually begin teasing interactions, queer, nervous thing as he is, but Douglas does rather enjoy it when Martin has the confidence, most of the time.
"Oh yes, Martin. Broadening my horizons." Martin snorts, taking his hat off, and Douglas has to restrain himself from reaching out and ruffling his hair – it's barely ever cut, in truth, because Martin never seems to have six pounds fifty to spare for a quick cut, and lacks the dexterity and confidence to do it himself – simply because it's thick and bright bloody ginger.
He really should get Martin's hair cut, shouldn't he? Mmm, a scheme to consider.
"Let me know how you like it," Martin says, just slightly over-eager, and Douglas gives him a sideways glance. Martin's freckled nose is pointed down at the flight controls in front of him, his fingers flicking dials, buttons and the like as he works with utter concentration, but Douglas had heard the excitement in his voice.
"A fan, are you?" Douglas raises an eyebrow when Martin meets his amused gaze, and he flushes a pretty colour, staring at the flight column and his own hands. Some of his freckles connect when he blushes, and Douglas does like the sight.
"I- one of the students left his set behind, a while back-"
"Ah. So you read them religiously?" Douglas doubts he has many books. Even though there are cheap second-hand book shops in Fitton, Martin pinches his pennies as best he can. Well. He has to – God knows how much money he actually has, but Douglas' salary is fairly modest, and he sincerely doubts that Martin's is any better.
"Not religiously, Douglas-"
"Have you been charmed, Martin? Been enchanted by the series? Bewitched? Did the books cast their spell on you?" Douglas can't help but be delighted at the sound the younger man makes – Martin all but giggles, and he opens his mouth for a few moments, obviously trying to come up with some equally witty retort, but his brain fails him. He abandons any hope of wit.
"Shut up." He's grinning, nonetheless. Bless the boy.
The sat comm goes and Douglas picks up the call, allowing Martin freedom from a battle of drollery.
Penelope loves the book. She's a delightful girl, truly, just past twenty nine (Douglas ought have introduced her to Martin a long time back, but every time something holds him back from doing what would be terrific for him and fantastic for her), and she cosplays regularly.
Cosplaying is something beyond Douglas, in truth, but the one time he had consented to allow Penelope Trent to dress him up like a paper doll in black robes and convinced him to imitate the dry, sarcastic tones of Severus Snape, Joanna had been delighted. She'd been utterly ecstatic to see Daddy as such, and she'd rather enjoyed the comic convention too. It had been odd for Douglas, in a hall full of terribly sweaty young people in ridiculous costumes, getting excited about videogames and comics, but it had been entirely worth it for Joanna.
Besides, Douglas had received a tremendous amount of attention himself, and he's hardly ever been the type to decline posing for a photograph. Particularly when one is in costume – one cannot waste the endeavour.
Penelope grins as soon as Douglas enters her office to visit her, too – she works in a publisher's, and if Joanna grows up to be half as confident as this young woman is, Douglas will be so very proud. Of course, he'll be terribly proud anyway – his dear daughter, all four feet of her, is utterly perfect.
"Douglas, you shouldn't have!" Penelope scolds him, and he grins. He likes the girl's voice; she has the voice of a girl raised on elocution lessons, but so much excitement comes through that it's rather difficult to hold it against her, as one would like to do with most such women.
"Oh, of course I should have," Douglas returns in a voice as smooth as new ice on the rink, and he grins at her. "You do like it?"
"Oh, it's perfect! The pages aren't even dog-eared, Douglas, well done!" She pulls him down by his lapel and presses a quick kiss to his cheek, gesturing for him to follow him into a cupboard. Douglas raises an eyebrow, but steps closer, peering into the closet with interest.
Ah.
"It's from the 60s, Chanel. It's in terribly good condition, Douglas, and though I didn't want to sell it, if you'd like an exchange of gifts…" Penelope holds it up by its hanger, and Douglas wonders, absently, how long it had been in there. Penelope Trent has the most amusing compunction in that she cannot refuse what she believes to be a bargain, and subsequently she ends up with all manner of valuable bric-a-brac about her flat, gathered as a result of its underpricing.
"Oh, Penelope, it's perfect. Not certain it will fit me, though." She laughs, grinning at him.
"You could try and squeeze in…" She says playfully, poking the middle button of his blazer, and he takes the hanger gently from her, hanging the suit over one of his arms and feeling the thick, neatly knitted fabric under his fingers. It's truly a gorgeous little number, and something he rather wishes might return to fashion.
It so happens that Douglas knows a salesman of vintage clothing, a man in Perth – an old fellow, seventy or so. When Douglas is given the note from Carolyn that they have an Australian booking (to Kalgoorlie-Boulder Airport, no less, a combination of some cargo of climbing equipment and another of some Australians), he gives old Paul a ring.
"Paul? It's Douglas Richardson here-" He always worries, ridiculously, that they will forget him. It's never happened yet, that an old fellow has forgotten him (Douglas is not the sort of man to be forgotten) but still, the irrational worry lingers with him, and he feels slight relief pool in his chest when he hears Paul's excited, hoarse tones down the line.
"Douglas! Alright, mate, how're you doing? How's Jeannie?" Well. That's awkward.
"Ah. Not actually with Jean anymore, Paul. We divorced some time ago. The current belle is Helena." Sort of. It's not strictly a lie, is it? In public, he and Helena are still quite entwined, and he hardly wants Paul to be setting him up with some young lady of Perth.
"Oh, God, sorry about that."
"No, no, quite alright. I've got something of interest, however. A vintage suit, in fact, 60s. Chanel."
"Really?" Paul demands, as excited about a women's suit as a man can possibly be.
In return, he receives an album of stamps, which he ends up exchanging for Beárnaise sauce, oddly enough. Sixteen massive jars of the stuff, and it's when they're in Cyprus that he gives them over for a very impressive selection of orchids.
"Ah, Douglas, ef charisto poli!" Dimitri is a lovely man, truly he is – Douglas has been fond of him for a long time, even after they'd broken up. It had been an amicable separation, after all, and was long since past, now. "So, is Helena…?"
"She is well, yes. We're just finalizing the divorce now." Douglas glances down at the mosquito candle on the table, setting his jaw slightly. He's quite uncomfortable with this sort of chatter, and goodness knows he's glad that Dimitri lives in Cyprus – were the man living in Fitton, Douglas would never be so very frank. Douglas can leave on an aeroplane soon enough, after all, and Douglas likes to deal with his feelings upon his own whim, not on those of someone else.
"Oh." Dimitri regards him with a small frown, patting his hand. "You'll find someone."
"Oh, I've found several someones, Dimitri, but unfortunately they never seem to last." Dimitri snorts, pouring bottled water into the kettle and then flicking it on. A cup of tea isn't truly Douglas' thing in the middle of a Mediterranean August, but to each man his own.
"And there is no one else?" Dimitri regards him quizzically, with interest, and then waves his hand in a vague motion. "The cabin boy. The redhead-"
"Captain."
"Pardon?"
"He's not the cabin boy, Dimitri. He's the captain." Dimitri blinks at him.
"Oh. Well, all the same, why not him?"
"Well, I'm reasonably certain he's not attracted to men, and I'm old enough to be his father." Douglas says, unamusedly. There's something like discomfort in the pit of his stomach, and he can't quite decide why it's so very uncomfortable.
"You are old enough to be Jeannie's father, no? And you, in fact, fathered someone by her. Has he met Joanna? Your captain?" What a terribly good question to ask – Martin and Joanna haven't met, no, but would they get on? Douglas is certain they would. Immediately, he knows that Joanna would find Martin's nerves to be both quaint and amusing, and she would take great pleasure in his company and his desperate attempts to teach her things; Martin, for his part, is not excellent with children, but he knows that Martin would be charmed by Joanna's manners and her polite interest in matters of aviation.
"No," Douglas says, "Not yet. Dimitri, really, we're not- he's quite-"
"Oh, no, no, I understand." Dimitri spreads his hands, amused. "I shall say no more. Tea?" Relief floods through him – the conversation is over.
"No, thank you. Some Coca-Cola?"
"Are you about to propose to me, Douglas?" For some reason, Douglas panics. He doesn't let it show, of course, but inwardly his heart has just sped up by a good amount, and irrationally he wonders how Dimitri, the damn Cypriot, had managed to get into contact with Martin Crieff.
"It pains me to break your heart, Martin, but no. These are for another man – a Finnish customs officer named Milo, to be exact." His tone is amused and mocking, and when Martin looks at him, it is with the most obscene O twisting his lips, looking as utterly scandalized as some figure on a poster with over-expressive features.
"And what does he have that I don't have?" Oh, imagine if this was honest. Oh, imagine. Damn Dimitri for putting the damn idea into his head – date Martin? Martin? Carolyn would be furious, age gap and others aside. And he's hardly got the best romantic reputation, now has he? Kate, break up. Jeannie, and they'd had Joanna, and they'd still broken up. And Helena -
Well.
"Fish cakes," Douglas answers succinctly. Martin cracks up, and the joy that bursts on that freckled face makes Douglas feel terribly warm inside. Oh, Dimitri Koulamis, you bastard. Douglas is going to smack him hard the next time he sees him.