'Maeve, how would you feel about a promotion?' Gethin asked before he went to his lunch.

'What, me? What sort of promotion, the one where I get a fancy job title and no extra pay to go with it, just extra responsibility...?'

'Assistant trainee manager, how's that sound?'

'And...?'

'Yes, so it's not so much of a pay rise, but there'll be something. And the only extra responsibility would be openingtheshoponThursdaymornings...'

He said it in a rush and cleared his throat after it with a grin, making her laugh.

'It sounds all right, actually!'

'Well, we're established a bit more now, doing okay, I think I can begin to delegate more – and you did say you wanted extra hours...'

'I did. As long as not all of them are half eight starts...'

'And can you start this week? This Thursday, I can talk you through the process as many times as you like before then...'

'Yes, whatever... how hard can it be?'

'Oh... unlock the door and lock it after you, pick up the post, switch on the till, sort out the float... make yourself a brew. I start at half eight because I like to get the stock out before I open, but it's not vital.'

'No, I think I can do eight-thirty, at least in the summer. Might be different coming up to Christmas, though. Still, that's ages away.'

Ages away. But it still felt nearer than Wednesday, somehow.

Monday night, after the phone call from Jonathan, filled with a strange mingling of relief and happiness and despair and dread, he went to look at the dress again. Now his fear of it was fading, so too was his determination. He would, one day, wear it. Not tonight, though. Suddenly there didn't seem the need, the urgency.

But he laid the dress out on the bad next to him, a reminder of what he was working towards, and Jonathan's pillow in his arms, a reminder of why it mattered, and Jonathan's dressing table a solid, comforting presence in the room.

Tuesday morning brought a cheerful jangle of the bell and Peter breezed in. He looked taller than when Gethin had last seen him, perhaps a few years younger as well.

'You look chipper,' Gethin said. 'I got your message that the flowers worked, then?'

'Yes, all happy again. Who knew Ivan would cause so much trouble even by proxy? Anyway, all sorted out now and the entire garden is lovely.'

'Glad to hear it.'

'And what about your own self, Gethin dear? How is Jonathan?'

'He's busy, very busy with this play. But, yes, good, really.'

'That's lovely to hear. And I've managed to find a book to add to your scurrilous collection...'

Peter produced an extremely ancient volume with battered, threadbare boards and they both laughed at the title.

'Nothing scurrilous about it, I'm sure, back in 1892 or whenever!' Gethin said. 'I'll add it to the list.'

'How's the shop, keeping you busy?'

'Pretty much, yes. Got one of the twice-monthlies in, half seven to half nine. Nice enough crowd, get a bit overexcited if you give them coffee, mind. Still, it passes the time.'

But not enough of it.

He began to realise that yes, as Jonathan had pointed out to him, he'd been filling up his life with the shop, which was fine at first, and before Jonathan had been on the scene. But now, with the few brief hours he wasn't busy, he realised how much of a void Jonathan had filled and, of course, as he'd moved his commitments aside to make space for their blossoming relationship, suddenly Jonathan had extra rehearsals and spare time wasn't such a good thing any more.

Gethin spent time with the dress, starting to feel a little absurd now, stroking the fabric, touching it. He even, just for ten minutes in the dark of the bedroom, away from the mirror, put it on without his jeans and tee shirt beneath. It didn't feel so bad, not really.

But at the end of ten minutes, he was glad to take it off and remember it as Jonathan's dress, not the one that had sent him into a blind panic.

Wednesday finally arrived, Gethin going through the opening routine once more with Maeve.

'Yes, spare key here, got it, inside, lock up... post, till, float... don't leave the key anywhere silly. Stock shelves if possible, otherwise leave the stock lists, emergency phone number. I can do this, Gethin, really I can.'

'You're sure?'

'Is it that you don't trust me or that you're scared to leave it in my hands in case I do it so well you don't have an excuse not to give me more hours?'

'Maeve, you're a star. Off you go now, then. See you tomorrow, between twelve and one.'

'Actually, if I'm here from half eight, shouldn't I get the early lunch?'

'Yes, of course, sorry... I'll be in for half eleven, then.'

'No! Joking! That's the only thing with you, always so serious!' She shrugged into her coat. 'Hope the afternoon goes fast for you. See you tomorrow.'

The afternoon didn't, nor did the down time between closing and the earliest he could possibly leave without turning up too early at the theatre. He judged it wrong anyway, and arrived at the end of the company's tea break, sliding in as quietly as he could.

But not so silently that he wasn't seen, and recognised.

'Jonathan? Isn't that your Gethin?' one of the actors said in a clear loud voice.

From beyond the tea urn a honey blond head poked out and grinned.

'Fuck me, it is my Gethin! Hello, my Gethin!'

'Evening, Jonathan...'

In one kite-like, swooping circuit of the hall, Jonathan picked up an untidy bundle of papers, found his outside clothes, slid his arm through Gethin's and hurried him towards the door.

'If Mr D asks,' he said over his shoulder, 'I'm going to rehearse at home. With my new voice coach. See you tomorrow, everybody.'

'Not going to ask can you do that,' Gethin said as Jonathan led the way out and along the street. 'Just glad you did.'

'Not half as glad as I am, Gethin-love! How clever of you to be early! Exactly when I was ready to strangle the Director – that's Mr D, the politest of the names we have for him. Never mind, done for the night now.'

'What about rehearsing?'

'Sod that for a game of soldiers! No, I've been at it for ten hours, I need a break. And not to cook, do you fancy some chips? Little place round the corner...'

'Chips would be good. Anything with them, fish, pie, sausage?'

'Oh, I could just go a good sausage...'

'I know the feeling.'

Jonathan's room was cold and dark and smelled a little of damp, but the lights worked, and once they'd put on the one-bar electric fire and opened the warm paper packages, soon the place felt much cosier and smelled of chips instead, which was, Jonathan announced, a vast improvement.

They ate companionably on the sofa, washing the supper down with cheap lager and not caring, Jonathan asking Gethin about the shop, he answering and asking more open questions so there was no need for Jonathan to talk about the play unless he wanted to.

He seemed to want to, though. Not all the time, but grumbling on and off like a slightly dodgy appendix.

'He's adding stuff into the script now... just little things, mostly to annoy Pip – the other lead... borderline homophobic but trying hard not to be, it's his upbringing, you know the sort, not exactly a good play for him... You want to see the script now, it looks like a tramp's been sleeping under it...'

And, later...

'That's another thing... the wardrobe department, they've got no idea... nothing in my size for the second lead, and the one thing, the one piece... I can't find it, terrified I've taken it to the mother's... well, shouldn't be talking about that...'

'Jonathan! It's fine, I told you... Just because I...'

Gethin fell silent, suddenly realising exactly what the one piece was that Jonathan couldn't find – the dress currently lurking at the back of the wardrobe in the guest room.

Jonathan didn't seem to notice, eager to get off the topic of his outfit.

'No, no, enough about work. Another beer? And then shall we play Sardines ?' He leaned in conspiratorially, breathed against Gethin's neck. 'Or how about 'Name That Tune'...?'

In the morning, familiar topic of conversation, different location. Jonathan clung. Gethin held tight.

'See, I'm going to be in for the high jump for running away last night; I'd rather not inflict Mr D's choice language on you this early in the day...'

Gethin nodded.

'But, of course, the theatre is on your way home, partly,' Jonathan added. 'So...'

'So proper goodbyes here, handshakes on the corner.' Gethin nodded. 'Okay.'

'I knew you'd understand, you are a sweetheart, Gethin-love.'

'Well. Wouldn't do it for just anybody, you know, Jonathan-cariad.'

'Been meaning to ask...'

'Term of endearment.' Gethin shrugged. 'Sweetheart, darling... something like that.'

'I like it.' Jonathan smiled and hugged Gethin tight. 'One last kiss and off we go. Think we can hold hands down the street, if you like. To the corner.'

To the corner, holding hands, the street empty except for the two of them, and a thin, drizzly rain. Shaking hands.

'Saturday, Gethin-love.'

'Saturday, Jonathan-cariad.'

Walking off in different directions.

Feeling the pit of his stomach fall away as he turned back and saw Jonathan had stopped and been watching him walk off, saw the drooped shoulders straighten as he waved, trying to be cheery.

Waving back, swallowing, wishing it was the weekend.

Continuing on to the station with blurry eyes.

Pulling himself together with a huge effort and realising, as he got off the first train, that it was only quarter past ten, he'd got ages yet before he had to be back at the shop, Gethin decided to leave the station where he should have changed lines for a bit of fresh air, a change of scenery; he could always walk to the next station along.

He remembered how surprised he'd been when he first came to London. Naïve, perhaps. Thinking it would be all Buckingham Palace and Houses of Parliament, finding instead it was just like anywhere else, a bit dirtier, slummier, harsher, perhaps, but basically just a place where people lived and worked and loved and died.

And shopped, of course.

This bit of the city reminded him of his own corner, a few clustered streets of retail and cafes, flats above. Here and there a junk shop, heaving with second-hand tat.

Something caught his eye, though, something cheap and blowsy and sparkly and just begging to be pinned to Jonathan's coat, perhaps to his beret, a large brooch shaped like a tied ribbon set in gold coloured metal and with large white paste mock-diamonds set along its length, a huge cheap stone in the middle. It was, quite literally, pennies, and he wandered inside.

A bell jangled brightly and he looked around. Heaps of clothes, some on rails, more in boxes and baskets. Large, dark pieces of furniture, old sideboards, drop-leafed tables. Books and old singles and albums. Incomplete tea sets and old brass ornaments.

'Just looking?' a voice said, a woman with a downturned mouth and wispy hair, one of those gingham nylon overalls favoured by cleaning ladies giving her something of an air of authority.

'Er... yeah. There's a brooch in your window...'

'Let's have a look, then.'

She moved passed him to stretch over the backboard of the window display to grab it, hobbling back to her place behind the counter with the brooch.

'Anything else?'

'Can I have a look at the clothes, there?' Gethin asked, drawn by what looked like a 1960s mini dress in bright yellow... he vaguely remembered Aunty Dilys in something similar, more modest colour perhaps.

'Help yourself. Fancy dress, is it?'

There was an enquiring note, as if the brooch had already made her suspicious.

'Amateur dramatics,' he said. 'They told me to look out for a few different things...'

'You can have three for two,' she said. 'Cheapest thing free.'

He nodded and began to rummage. The yellow mini dress he set to one side, found a much longer, much larger dress straight from the fifties, shirt-waisted, button-through, charcoal and white geometric, cotton. Might it do for Jonathan's other role? Certainly it was a good idea to take different sizes, might stop the shopkeeper eyeing him up like that... There was a dark green skirt suit, too, also dated, with a wide collar and covered buttons.

'Three quid the lot,' the woman said. 'You do know these are different sizes?'

'Er – yes, different actors. Actresses. Is that with the brooch?'

'How'd you get on?' he asked Maeve as he walked through the door at just on twelve.

'Great, no problems, post's on the side there. Yes, I could do that every week if you needed me to.'

'Might just take you up on that, thanks.'

'What have you been buying?' Maeve asked, curious about the jumble of fabric in the big plastic bag Gethin had set down by the till. 'Fancy dress costumes?'

'No – Jonathan was saying their wardrobe had no costumes for him...'

'But... there's a dress in there...'

'Yes, he's stuck with one of those modern directors... I'll just take these up to the flat...'

Really, though, he wasn't quite sure himself what had come over him. The fifties dress, that was for Jonathan, yes, to make secret amends for the other dress hiding in the wardrobe... but the other two wouldn't go near him, broad-shouldered and tall as he was...

But somewhere at the back of his mind, Gethin had the thought that maybe, if it wasn't the same dress, it might be easier to face up to whatever had panicked him.

By Friday night he was ready, the green skirt suit back from the cleaner's (because it had smelled and even he knew washing wool was an art), the shop was shut and Jonathan had called with many blown kisses and promises of tomorrow night, same as last week, a drink out and then back to the flat; all was as well with Gethin's world as it was likely to be without Jonathan actually being there, and that was just too risky – if it went wrong again...

A drink to steady himself, not much, a nip of the vodka he kept for emergencies and he made his preparations.

Make-up first. He was getting to understand the rituals of it now, almost to like it, the sense that you could somehow change your perceptions, and other people's, just by adding a few highlights and dabs of colour to your face. Gave him confidence, in a funny sort of way, perhaps because he was okay with it, had always been okay with make-up.

Dress next.

He covered the dressing table mirror, not wanting to catch an accidental glimpse before he was ready, and set the little boudoir chair up in front of the mirrored wardrobe door in the guest room before going back and changing into the skirt suit, which he put on over his own underwear. Perhaps he should have had a shirt or something too, it itched...

But the itching took his mind off what he was doing, and he was soon zipped and buttoned in; it felt a bit odd around the waist, and loose at the top, but seemed to fit reasonably well elsewhere.

Didn't feel so bad, not really.

The next thing would be the tricky bit, though, making his way through and sitting down before looking in the mirror... better wait a bit.

Bit longer maybe.

Had he prepared enough? What about tomorrow, first thing...?

No; this had gone on long enough. Jonathan would be here tomorrow, he'd got that to look forward to, get this out of the way now, tonight.

He was going to be fine, he just knew it.

Walking into the guest room making sure he only looked at his feet and not at the mirror was difficult. He could see the dark green of the suit as he looked down, of course, and that was all right.

Found his way to the stool and sat down, closing his eyes just in case.

Lifting his head, taking a breath and feeling his heartbeat already ratchetting up stupidly fast.

Just a bit of cloth, old cloth at that.

It took all his courage to open his eyes and look...

...and suddenly he was hanging on to seat of the boudoir chair as if it was the only thing holding him up. He wasn't ready, hadn't planned enough for this, it was too much, and...

No. Gethin closed his eyes and made himself focus on breathing. He could get out of the room. He could just shuck off the dress, it would be gone, nothing to worry about.

Or he could look again, and try and see beyond the panic.

Slow. Breathe slow, easy, it's just you, just Gethin in a skirt suit.

Steadying himself, reminding himself he could back away any time, Gethin looked at his reflection. It was both harder to look at himself in this than in the other dress and easier at the same...

The state of you!

The thought interrupted him, seeming to come from a different part of his mind: look at the state of you, your hair not brushed, and all that muck on your face! Well, come along, haven't got all day...

Gethin glanced down, somehow ashamed, smoothed his hair.

'Is that better?' he murmured, heard that inner voice again.

It'll do, it will have to, never tidy, not really... one of these days...

And then he realised, his jaw dropping, as he looked properly in the mirror and saw things he couldn't possibly be seeing, saw through the dress and into the heart of the problem...

Except he wasn't seeing them, of course. Imagination, powerful thing.

Needed to think about this a bit.

More than a bit.

Duw, this was the last thing he'd expected...