Alex had changed his routine as the year passed from spring to summer. First thing, Tuesdays and Thursdays, he braved the frankly bracing water at the Lido on Jesus Green. The outdoor pool was long, a whopping 91m. The lifeguard helped him with his prosthetics and the manager sometimes timed his lengths. It sort of reminded him of the outdoor pools in Cyprus and Athens. The feeling of the wind, and the sun when it shone, on your skin made up for the fact the water was cool.
His times were no where near his personal bests, but Alex did not miss the strict, micro managed, 24/7 training and nutrition lifestyle of a world class athlete. Pushing himself physically and mentally to succeed had been successful, but at too high a price. Such a blinkered approach to excellence had been his way of squashing his raw grief over loosing his dad and his home. Like before his stint at Loughborough, he swam, length after length for his own happiness; he was no longer preoccupied with racing, times and technique. Swimming was again his preferred way of thinking things through, finding calm and centering himself. In the pool, the past, present or future did not matter.
It was May and the prospect of another family summer in LA beckoned. Tony was busy, busy, busy. So was Grigor, as Alex now called Gerard his birth name, a fact that the man really disliked. The thought of La-La Land was not enticing, but neither was staying in London or Cambridge. Alex was coasting at College, doing just enough work to be in the middle, neither failing nor considered brilliant. First year had been ticking the boxes, handing in the required coursework and going to all the timetabled lectures and seminars. His tutor was the only one privy to his present extracurricular activities, working weekends with Paul Roscoe on various ideas, as both found their courses less than challenging. His growing friendship with the native New Yorker, had been a surprise for both boys. They shared common ground, not just that school. Both could be considered scions of the privileged elite, but both had suffered and survived and were working to resolve their own personal demons.
...
Paul Roscoe was tall, blond, blue-eyed and popular, even as a loudmouth Yankee in good old England. If he'd gone to a school in the States, he'd be a jock, never a nerd in spite of his chosen major. He considered other colleges and universities and settled on the MEng Computer Systems Engineering at Brunel. He might do his PhD in the States, but he was glad to be away from Manhattan and three thousand miles away from his bitch of a mother. He would probably never forgive her for accepting his Grief doppelgänger, when his father hadn't and had been murdered for his suspicions. In the last three years, he had done his hardest to be the son Michael Roscoe would be proud of, one who was difficult, opinionated and no one's fool. He has no problems dating, as he was invited to the right sort of parties, had guaranteed entrance to clubs, and was never turned down for reservations at even the most popular restaurants. He was presently dating a twenty year old model, one who was considering moving into his river front apartment. Life was definitely good for the heir of billionaire, Michael Roscoe. He wanted for nothing, commuted to college on a brand new Ducati. Thankful that the journey was against the flow of rush hour traffic, as most sped into the city as he headed west down Uxbridge Road.
On Friday, he was going out to a party with his girlfriend, some fashion launch. He really had not been listening to Karina when she explained the whys, wherefores and whens. He got back to his apartment on Chelsea Harbour and went to read his emails. Alex was in town this weekend, invited to his 'godfather' Dylan's birthday celebration. Alex stating he'd call around in the morning to catch up. He stretched and then picked up the copy an article written by Alex that had been accepted by the London Mathematical Society for its fall issue. For a guy that was claiming to be bored at Cambridge, the short piece of the practical applications of chaos and game theory to encryption hinted at great possibilities. The pair had been fooling around with algorithms in code. Alex had even put his name on the bloody paper. He was a published scholar now, even if he hadn't written a word.
...
Charing Cross was busy with Friday night traffic, Alex took a deep breath as he exited the station, glad that his short 20 minute trip on the underground was over. His hatred of small places and crowds did not ease until he escaped the Strand and walked down Craven Street, to Dylan's offices. For a man celebrating his birthday today, he was working until 5:30. Alex knew that Dylan walked to work every day from his flat in Pimlico. Before Alex's attempted suicide, he had never been that close to his papa's best friend. The fusspot kept tabs on him, having lunch every time Alex came up to London, but this was the first time Alex was staying at Dylan's place. The teenager normally stayed with Sylvia or Paul. He did not know what to expect, the agent was a very private man.
Dylan was busy going over press releases and his schedule for the coming week with his door open to the reception area, as Alex entered, looking tired from his journey. "Find a pew, lovely. I'll get you a coke or would you prefer a coffee?"
Alex dropped off his suit bag and sat on the sofa. "Coke would be great. Thanks, Dylan. Still hard at work I see."
"No rest for the wicked. My schedule went to pot this afternoon, when a certain actress threw an absolute wobbler over some trivial points in her contract in a dreadful daytime soap. Poor woman thinks she's a star and acts like a complete diva." Dylan took out the can from the fridge and got himself a mineral water. "I have about another 20 minutes of essentials to do. Anything that turns up now can wait until monday. Tonight a nice early supper at the the Savoy, then the Ballet. Don't worry I spoke to the maitre'd, they cater for all dietary requirements. I have to thank you again for your birthday present." The Agent wondered just how much Alex had paid for the box on a Friday night performance.
Alex had been surprised wen Dylan had asked him to accompany him, thinking he'd have preferred to take his partner or any of his friends. "Am I changing here?"
"Yes, the bathroom's just beyond Tomas' office. I'll change after you're ready."
Alex took his time to look perfect. It had been over four years since he met Papa's best friend, but he could honestly say he did not know Dylan well. The man had changed his attitude to Alex since the incident last summer. It was as if Alex had been allowed to join the agent's inner circle after his complete meltdown. Since starting at Cambridge, the man had kept tabs on him, with emails, the occasional late night or early morning phone call and it had been Dylan who kept track of his grades and attendance at lectures. Alex knew the man spoke to both the porters at Churchill and his course tutor regularly.
Alex exited the bathroom and Dylan's eyes went straight to the trainers, which spoilt the whole look. The penguin suit ensemble was designer, the black reeboks were well worn and had drawn the eye of the agent immediately.
"Err, I'll change my shoes out here." Alex flushed and confessed his problem. "I got new prosthetics at Easter, I might be a bit crap at walking in my dress shoes. I had a bit of practice last night, the soles have a lot less grip, so when we're out I'll probably need a bit of help with stairs and carpet and stuff." The legs had more flexible ankle joints, making walking appear more fluid, natural. Alex normally wore casual clothes at college, even got away with black trainers at formal college dinners. So, his dress shoes had remained in their box. Alex shifted back to the seat and took the shoes out of his suit bag. He bet he slipped or fell over tonight and the one thing he did not want was to embarrass Dylan. He had observed the man, who like Tony, was always impeccably dressed, with perfect diction, never a word or a gesture out of place. The man never swore or lost his temper. Alex understood that he had taken upon himself to be a parent to Tony's adopted child. Alex's mind then wandered to think of the man his birth parent's had chosen for that role, that murdering bastard Anthony Sean Howell, who should have brought up John's child, should have cared and nurtured him. Only he had murdered his best friends and abandoned their child.
Dylan exited the bathroom to see Alex tying his shoelaces with an unguarded black look on his face. He had been warned by Tony that getting close to Alex would lead to moments of rejection, as the boy guarded himself against getting hurt. It had been an eye opener for the fifty-something, as before last summer he'd only seen the cocky sharp wit of this adopted child, not the broken devastation left from years of abuse from his uncle.
He muffled a cough, to break the teenager from his dark thoughts, and observed Alex flip from dark and moody to a bashful smile, as he was ashamed to have been caught thinking about his past.
...
The pair walked slowly up the Stand and then north to Covent Garden after their early supper. In the splendor of the Opera House, Alex looked at the sweeping staircase to the circle and the box he'd booked. In an Indiana Jones type moment he thought "Stairs, why did it have to be stairs."
Dylan scanned the throngs and then noticed Alex's attention fixed on the stairs, obviously planning his route to the balcony box.
"We can use the lift, Alex."
Alex then looked down, he had counted the steps, noting the handrail. "Its OK, good practice. It'll be hard, but I refuse to bow down to my short comings. Anyway, lets get a glass of bubbly at the bar as a reward for all that hard work getting to the Balcony."
...
At 10, the next morning Alex arrived at Chelsea to see Paul, part of his busy wekend as he was having lunch with Aunty Sylvia tomorrow. He'd get back to Cambridge and be absolutely knackered.
Paul had a bright smile o his face as he answered the door, but looked like he had just got out of bed. "Morning, Genius. You're paper was a bit like a taster for something bigger and better."
"My tutor said the same, I have already written my PhD proposal, I'm already planning far, far into the future. I bet I can get that fully funded considering all the potential for encytion work. I sent a copy of the paper to Smither's. You really need to meet that guy, he's absolutely brilliant."
"Not this weekend. How about we discuss all the spooky potential of your grand idea over coffee and peanut butter on toast."