Chapter Seven: Hiatus

Gethin loved his job.

He loved the shop.

It was fulfilling, interesting, required lots of different skills, was never boring.

But Monday morning he really, really couldn't be bothered with it. Hadn't slept well, somehow, and the early part of the day dragged as he loaded stock onto the shelves, kept up with his paperwork in the quiet times, tried to be helpful to customers, all the while listening for the phone upstairs, even though he couldn't possibly hear it if it did…

Just before noon his part-timer arrived, bringing milk and biscuits for the back room, supplies for that evening's meeting, and he handed over to retreat to his flat for his lunch break.

Its sudden vastness made him wince, the emptiness of the living room… how could the presence of one person, for a few hours, make such a huge difference? Well, not every person could. But when that one was Jonathan Blake, perhaps it shouldn't be so surprising.

It was almost a relief to go back down to the shop where he had to pay attention, talk to his assistant Maeve, thank her, take over, say goodbye until tomorrow, reconnect with the job, and the afternoon passed a little more easily.

Just before closing time, the bell tinkled and he looked up to see Peter advancing on him, an almost stern expression on his face.

'Gethin Roberts, what have you been up to?'

'Nothing much.'

'That is not what I heard! And all that business of 'Johnathan who?' when you knew perfectly well...'

'At the time, I didn't know him. Now I do, a bit.' Gethin shrugged. What business of it was Peter's anyway?

'I should think you do!' Peter shook his head in, what, disapproval? 'After him staying the night here, according to what I heard! Caused ructions with his little tartlet, not that I care about Clapham Common Luke…'

The shop being empty, but for Peter, and it being one minute to closing, Gethin slid past to turn the sign round, displaying the 'Closed' face to the external window, and slid the catch across. Peter had become something of a friend, and while not one to tolerate interference, Gethin couldn't bring himself to just tell him to clear off and mind his own business.

'If you've something to say, come through and say it. But I don't like to do personal stuff in the shop.'

'Hmm… Did you tell Jonathan Blake that?'

Gethin led the way through and put the back room kettle on, breaking into the milk for that night's meeting to steal enough for cups of tea, not asking, just getting on with it.

'Suppose you tell me what you heard, and then I know what stories are out there?' he suggested, back turned to where Peter had taken a seat at the table.

'Or you tell me what really happened...? Really, I know you're going to say it's none of my business...' Peter paused, but Gethin just waved a spoon at him to continue. 'Well. I just never would have thought it of you, something like that...! And I wouldn't say anything, but for Gordon introducing you to Ivan... if nothing else, I would have thought you'd consider Ivan's feelings...'

'Why do I feel you've already decided you know what's happened? And what would it have to do with Ivan?' Gethin brought across the tea, sugar, a spoon. 'We are just friends, you know.'

Peter sighed and stirred sugar into his tea.

'Yes, I know. But he says he's working on it.'

'Oh.' Gethin fell silent, thinking about the implications. 'Can't help that, didn't lead him on, made it clear, I'd thought.'

'The last I knew he was adamant that you simply didn't know your own mind.'

Perhaps that was true. Except it hadn't been Ivan causing him to wonder and worry and waste his emotional energy…

Gethin shook his head. Oh, he could go through the tale – with omissions – of the weekend, but why should he? It would only sound defensive.

'So, what did you hear, then? What am I accused of, should I say?'

Peter took a mouthful of tea, his mobile lips pursing as he set the mug down.

'You had a liaison with Blake on Saturday, he turned up in disguise so nobody would recognise him, and when Luke tracked him down the next day, you tried to claim it was all quite innocent...'

'Not quite sure what to make of that… is Jonathan supposed to be so bloody irresistible I wouldn't turn him down, even when he turns up drunk and in drag? Or am I supposed to be some sort of Blake-magnet that he couldn't restrain himself and I didn't fight him off? Doesn't matter, nothing happened.'

Well. Not on Saturday night, it hadn't. Not before Luke had turned up and destroyed Jonathan's self-respect. And then it had only been a kiss and a teasing suggestion not acted on.

'So you won't care they're back together again? Whatever you were up to hasn't worked.'

'No, glad to hear it,' Gethin said through his growing sense of outrage, even though he wasn't, not really. 'Mr Blake was expecting to meet Luke after a meeting, but it was over by nine-thirty and when he arrived – Blake – I told him the bad news, everyone gone home. Wouldn't have done any more than that, certainly wouldn't have got involved, but the local coppers were feeling strict that night and I didn't want an arrest outside my shop.'

'That's very plausible… especially with Jonathan…'

Gethin shrugged.

'And Luke didn't track him down either, didn't have to, I rang to say Mr Blake was here, needed clothes, tried to smooth things when he arrived.'

'That isn't what Luke is saying.'

'Fortunately, I don't give a rat's arse what Luke says.' Gethin saw surprise grow in Peter's face. 'Sorry.'

'No, no… I think you've expressed yourself quite effectively there…'

Gethin sipped at his tea, warily waiting. He had a feeling Peter wasn't finished yet, and he was right.

'You see, the thing is, I can understand the allure of Jonathan Blake. Big personality, outgoing, fun, in a slightly raddled sort of way… gathers people around him like moths to a great big shiny dancing flame… that has to be appealing to a shy boy like you. No need to do any of the talking, just let him fill up your world with his presence… but…'

'I'm not shy,' Gethin said sharply. 'Quiet, yes. Not shy. I like people, wouldn't have this job if I didn't, would I? Standing there, day after day, talking to strangers…'

'Oh, I don't know… you might. After all, you don't have to do much more than sell them books, it isn't as if you really have to connect… but there's the thing, lovely, we all need to connect…'

Finally, Gethin had the sense that Peter was getting to the heart of things…

'…And if not with Ivan, then who? Not one of the young pretty boys like Luke; far too demanding and self-centred. Not someone like Jonathan either, he's too… too out there for you. And spoken for. Oh, there are lots of quiet, not-shy types like you around, but I can't see that working, two introspective, brooding young men together. No, there is only Ivan. You need someone, Gethin. Why not him?'

'No sparks,' Gethin said. 'As a friend, he's fine. Besides, not very nice is it, tell him I've changed my mind, let's go for it, not because he's him but because there isn't anyone else? Not fair.'

'You do have a point there. But, you know something? Ivan probably wouldn't mind. And, look at it from the other point of view; it's crushing to know someone would rather tootle their own flute, as it were, than let him help… to realise the one you like would really, really rather have no-one…'

Gethin shook his head.

'I don't know what you want from me.'

Peter sighed.

'I don't want anything from you, lovely. Gordon wanted me to put in a good word for Ivan, that's all. So for Gordon's sake, I said I'd ask. And for your sake, I thought you'd want to know you're at the centre of some very mucky gossip. And mud sticks, you know. Having Ivan seen to stand by you could only help…'

Gethin allowed the silence to drag out until finally Peter compressed his lips together, shaking his head.

'Well, look at us… we've been much better friends since that one date we had, disaster thought it was… why not just try it, try seeing him as a potential partner and then you can at least say you made the effort…?'

'Wouldn't that just make it worse? And, yes. You and me, better friends since. If we weren't, do you think I'd still be listening?'

'Oh, get you!' Peter grinned, playful, unabashed, turning the mood. 'So I suppose you won't want to double date when Ivan gets back next week?'

'It's probably not a good idea. Unless you get it across that I don't want more than a friendship.'

Peter nodded, capitulating, getting to his feet.

'Well, thank you for the tea. And if you need moral support, or actual support, you can always ring me.'

'I know.' Gethin unlocked the door, held it. 'I know you mean well. Thanks.'

'Even if I was wasting my time. Oh, well! See you later, Gethin. You take care, now. Remember: mud sticks.'

And maybe it did, but perhaps Luke hadn't flung quite so much in Gethin's direction as Peter thought, because there were no comments or questions from the group meeting that night even indirectly related to the subject of Jonathan and Luke's row… Gethin caught himself in a sigh. Peter's time hadn't been entirely wasted; at least he conveyed the information that Luke and Jonathan were an item again, and however much Gethin hated the thought, still, it was what Jonathan had wanted, or seemed to want.

So that was all right, then.

It had to be.

The week trolled on, shop and customers and meetings, and if he got one or two curious glances, and a few pointed questions now, he was able to disregard them and continue as normal. So much for Peter and his mud…

The post on Friday morning brought him two slim packages addressed in an unfamiliar, flamboyant hand, all curlicues and flourishes. There were numbers on the back but, rebel that he was, he opened the one marked '2' first. Inside was a cheap and tattered copy of a Shakespeare play: "All's Well That Ends Well". The first parcel contained, in similar vein, "The Taming of the Shrew".

Ah. A message. Very clever, and then a bookmark fell out of the "All's Well"…

'Not quite "As You Like It", but it'll do. J.'

So. Good.

He thumbed through the books, trying not to linger on the underlined lines, the annotations in the same hand as on the bookmark, (if more restrained by space), tried not to think about how these must have been Jonathan's books, held by Jonathan's elegant, strong hands…

Tried not to dwell on the fact that Jonathan had taken the time, the trouble, to send the books, to send a message.

Tried to be happy for Jonathan, that he wasn't alone.

Tried not to mind that he was, because, after all, it wasn't as if he had to be. His choice. He could go out tonight, if he wanted. Find someone, anyone… he could.

Oh, wait. No, he couldn't; 'First Quarter' back to their usual meeting again.

Tomorrow night, then.

Except he already knew he wouldn't.