Quite a lot of kissing happened, in fact, but not before Jonathan had slowly smoothed his thumb across Gethin's mouth to take off the excess of lip gloss. His eyes were kind as he did it, everything about him reassuring, affectionate, so that if seeing Gethin freak out at the sight of his own reflection in a dress had disappointed him, there was no telling from his behaviour.

He was an actor, of course, Gethin reminded himself, trained at displaying emotions he might not be feeling...

Then Jonathan reached for him, pulled him on top of his broad, warm chest and distracted him with kisses and clever, tender hands.

Later, when it was too early to go to bed but not early enough to do much else, Gethin felt the bed dip and lift as Jonathan left its sanctuary. He was hazily aware of noises from outside the bedroom; feet on stairs, taps running, glass chinking, and a few minutes later Jonathan returned with a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses.

'Nice crisp little white, I thought, Radox bath, I'll take the tap end, couple of glasses, you and me, relaxing together, how does that sound?'

'It sounds like you're fussing over me a bit. I'm fine. But... it sounds nice, thank you. I'll do the tap end.'

'No, I quite like the spine massage you get from the overflow... besides, I happen to have an inflatable bath pillow my nieces gave me for my birthday one year.'

'Of course you have! All right, then.'

It was indeed nice. Not relaxing, though – not at first, trying to sort out whose feet should go where, and mind what you're doing with the bath rack – but eventually they were sorted out, legs tessellated together, using each other's shins and knees as arm rests in between sips of wine, and the chaos, the silliness of it had made Gethin giggle, and Jonathan grin, and, yes, finally, relaxing.

'Sorry about earlier,' Gethin said after his second glass of white. 'Not given to crying, usually, or anything like that...'

'In fact, you didn't cry,' Jonathan said. 'Not that there's anything wrong with blokes crying, for God's sake, it's the 1980s not the 1950s after all... No, but I happen to know that particular mascara, my lovely, it isn't waterproof. I thought if you didn't like it, it'd be easier to take it off – in fact, it's just started tracking down your face now from the steam in here... bet mine is, too...'

'Well, a bit.'

'A bit. I put loads on me, I bet I look like an untidy chimney sweep, or a tipsy panda...'

Gethin grinned as Jonathan reached across and unwound a section of toilet roll to begin wiping off his make-up with.

'Want some? Or are you saving yourself for the cotton wool balls?'

'I think I'll pass, thanks.'

But Jonathan bundled up a fresh wodge of tissue and leaned forward to do the job himself, patting gently at Gethin's face until the make-up was gone, only then turning his attention back to the remnants of cosmetics currently making a run for it down his cheeks.

'Can we do it again?' Gethin asked. 'Make-up, I mean? Will you show me?'

'I'd love to. Not tonight though, eh? Let your skin have a bit of a rest first. It's heady stuff, if you're not used to it.'

'Sounds a bit like you.'

'Hmm... I hope that's a compliment?'

After the water had cooled too much for them to linger, they disentangled their legs and bundled up in pyjamas and dressing gowns to cuddle on the sofa, open another bottle of white, and finish off the scones.

'Well, way past my bedtime,' Gethin said at last. 'Half seven alarm for me, I'll try not to wake you.'

'I might even be up first. Who knows?'

Monday was busier than usual in the shop, mainly because nearly all Gethin's Sunday jobs had been left incomplete. So while he was able to catch up a little in the first quiet half hour, it meant the restocking and shelving had to be done sporadically in the quiet moments.

Nor was Jonathan there to help, not that Gethin would have asked; it would have felt like an imposition, but shortly after Gethin had run down to open the shop, Jonathan had appeared from the door to the back room, his Frank Spencer coat over his arm, a bag on his shoulder and his beret jammed on his head.

'Promised the mother I'd drop in and help with her spring cleaning,' he said. 'She's a bit long in the tooth for this sort of thing, if you ask me, but she likes the ritual of it. Says it makes her feel alive, knowing she's seen another spring clean. Daft old bird, but I do love her... um.'

'That's sweet of you...' um' what, Jonathan?'

'Tiny bit of a commute. Don't think I can make it back for your dinner break, sorry...'

'Don't worry about it. I've got stock lists to catch up with if I'm bored.'

'No, lunch time is for lunch. Eat, don't work. And I've an early evening read-through of the first few scenes of 'Fly Boy', I should be home by about seven to half past, though. Okay?'

'Okay.' Gethin tried not to grin. Home, Jonathan had said, home, which took the sting out of him being gone all day. 'Got a group meeting at half past, so I'll need to dash down and settle them in; if I'm not around, that's why.'

'Lovely. Don't work too hard, will you?' Jonathan said, pulling Gethin towards him for a swift kiss on the cheek. 'See you later, Gethin-love.'

The kiss and the endearment carried him through the morning until Maeve arrived. She grinned at his obvious good mood.

'Good weekend?' she asked. 'Well, half-weekend, I suppose.'

'Pretty good, thank you.' And it had been, generally speaking. Apart from the odd hour, here and there. 'You?'

'So-so. Could have been worse. Anything special you want me to do today, other than push the competition?'

'Don't think so. Bit behind today, catching up. Went hospital visiting with Jonathan yesterday...'

'Oh, your friend Ivan? How is he? Still feeling sorry for himself?'

'Yes, possibly with some reason. Has to have an operation on his hand today... I was going to ask a favour?'

'That sounds alarming! What favour?'

'I need to go back and see him again, but I don't want to go on my own... '

'Er...'

'I'd pay your train fare, time-and-a-half from the moment you leave your house to the moment you get home again, just a half-hour visit one evening this week?'

'I suppose... it would depend what day, I have evening classes on Wednesdays...'

'Let me check the calendar... there's a meeting Wednesday, so no problem, another Thursday... um... tomorrow night, could you do tomorrow?'

'Possibly... does Jonathan know?'

'Actually, it was his idea.'

'Well... okay... Double-time, you said?'

'Time-and-a... okay. Double-time. Visiting starts at seven, so there's a bit of leeway. We can sort out details tomorrow.'

'If you're sure Jonathan won't mind.'

Jonathan, when he heard the news that evening, was delighted.

'Wonderful!' he exclaimed. 'She's a treasure. You know, you should give her more hours, and yourself fewer. You never seem to stop!'

'Suppose. But at first it kept the wage bill down, and then I'd lots of time to fill... besides, an immersive experience, good way to learn the ropes...'

'Good way to work yourself to an early grave, if you ask me! I mean, if you were to tally up all the hours you actually work, with these meetings...'

A muted bubble of voices rising from the back room downstairs perfectly illustrated Jonathan's point.

'...there, you see?'

'That's just it, I couldn't afford to pay someone else to do it...'

'But you don't even have a weekend – you have a day off, which, left to yourself, you'd spend doing what? Paperwork?'

'Well, never mind, I've got an hour before I need to go and check on them.'

'Oh, a whole hour... I wonder what we can do to pass the time...?'

Tuesday evening, and Gethin was already regretting this. Jonathan had left early again to help his mother ('It's probably going to be all week, Geth-love, it seems to take longer every year...') and rehearsals again, meaning that Gethin had left the flat before Jonathan had got back; it seemed a long day without him, and the thought of wasting the evening on Ivan seemed wrong.

Still, get this over and done with, and move on.

Maeve was waiting outside the tube station for him. She seemed to have made an effort, wearing a smart skirt and jacket rather than the jeans she favoured for work, and smiled when he complimented her.

'Well, I thought it'd make a change. You know, I don't have the first clue about this chap... what do I need to know?'

So Gethin filled the wait for the train, and the journey itself, with what he knew about Ivan that might be important. He started out trying very hard to be objective, but by the time they were toiling up the non-functioning escalator towards the exit, he realised he'd descended into a barely controlled rant.

'...always, filling up my glass, wanting to pay, like I was some sort of cute fluffy bunnykins and I was going to end up his plaything, whatever I did. And it was always, oh, you don't know your own heart, Gethin, you are such a coy one... and if I kept on insisting, protesting, it was, your language is so hard...'

Maeve giggled and patted his arm.

'And yet you're still visiting him? Oh, that's so nice of you!'

'Stupid, more like. But with this deportation-thing... though how likely it is, I don't know, or what I could do about it anyway...'

'Well, don't you worry about any language difficulty tonight. I know how to say 'get lost, creep!' in about fifteen different languages.'

'Really?'

'Really. I used to work in the bar at the International Centre at tech college, it's amazing how quickly you pick up enough to get by.'

Ivan was in the chair on the far side of the bed, looking remotely, distantly handsome and slightly aggrieved. His injured hand was covered with a far smaller dressing than previously, and a selection of get well cards were lined with pedantic precision on top of his bedside locker.

On seeing Gethin, he put on a brave-through-pain smile and lifted his uninjured hand in greeting.

'Gethin, you came!' he said in long-suffering tones and a trembling smile. 'Although I did not expect you to bring a companion and I am at a loss as to whom he might be...'

Maeve compressed her lips together and dropped into one of the two visitors' chairs.

'She,' she said crisply. 'I can tell English isn't your first language, so I'll let you off. Besides, we have met – I'm Maeve, from the shop.'

'Ah, yes. But, still...'

'Maeve's here because Jonathan is busy. Peter said something about you might be deported, that's why I'm here. But I don't know what I can do to help...'

Maeve got up from her seat and began to look over the greetings cards on the locker; it seemed to be her way of giving him and Ivan a sense of privacy.

'You can make a statement, Gethin, to the police, to my lawyer to say, I am of good character, not one for fighting. You could say it was not my fault, that I did not start it, that I was protecting you...'

'I wasn't there, though,' Gethin said. 'I can't lie about it.'

'Do you wish that I be deported?'

'Honestly? I...'

'Where to, exactly?' Maeve asked.

'I do not like to say... but parts of Eastern Europe, they are not nice places to be...'

'No, I meant exactly. As in, where in the Netherlands?'

'What?' Gethin asked.

'I do not know what you might mean?' Ivan said, his voice faint. 'And I am tired, the anaesthetic, it is still making me groggy...'

'Two of these cards have handwritten messages in Dutch,' Maeve said, turning to Gethin. 'And your friend's accent... it's very slight, but it's there. If you didn't know the accent, you'd never guess... I meant, are you from the north, or south? Near Amsterdam, or Rotterdam, or what? I have a brother in Dordrecht...'

'Ivan? Is this right?' Gethin asked. 'You're from Holland?'

'My mother moved there as a little girl.' Ivan sighed. 'She was from Poland. But I do not see why it matters now...'

'Except there are worse places to get deported to, aren't there?' Gethin said, pushing back his chair. 'Good bye, Ivan. Hope the hand heals well.'

'Wait – I have much more to say to you...'

'I'm not interested. If you want me to make a statement, fine, but I don't see how it will help. Maeve, if you're ready?'

'Actually, Gethin, I've got a few things to say to Ivan first, if you don't mind,' Maeve said, taking her seat again with a glint in her eye that made Gethin resolve never to get on her bad side. 'And we'll start with, just who do you think you are? Making up all these stories! And talk about intolerant, being all sniffy about a drag act and... and people in dresses? Oh, and calling me 'he', that wasn't nice...'

'What is it that you want? An apologise?'

'No, I just want to ask you a question. Are you even gay?'

'What?'

'Or did you just think, big fish, small pond? Did you think you'd do better on the other side of the fence?'

'Fence? I do not...'

'All this socio-normative chauvinism, is it just a cover? Because it put off all the girls and so you're trying with the boys now? Are you straight, really?'

'I... this is not... I do not have to listen to a small tramp such as you...'

'Very nice,' Gethin said. 'You've insulted me, my friend, my boyfriend, and now my employee. Maeve, I am sorry you had to hear that.'

'It's all right,' Maeve said. 'But so much for not knowing the language, right? Vaarwel, Ivan.'

'What she said,' Gethin added. 'Goodbye, Ivan.'

'Well, at least it's over,' Maeve said. 'And we're on our way nice and early.'

'He shouldn't have said that, though.'

'Oh, I've been called worse.' Maeve grinned, and gave a swift giggle. 'He didn't deny it, did you notice?'

'True. Not sure it's the case, but it shut him up. How did you know he's Dutch?

'Oh, my Mum used to love Van der Walk when I was little, and I watched it with her. I sort of got used to the accent, and then, my brother taught me all the rude words... I'm glad I didn't have to use any of them, though!'

'Well, thank you.'

'Any time. Well, not any time, but most times... Well, this is my bus stop, I can get straight home from here. Time-and-a-half, we said?'

'Double-time,' Gethin said with a grin. 'After that performance, you've earned it.'