Companion Required Read online

  “Nice,” said Kennedy, reaching next to his laptop for the supplementary document. “So here’s a list of other requirements. You’ll need to take a medical examination before you travel.”

  “Why?”

  “A precaution. To make sure you’re in good shape, physically.”

  “I’m negative, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That’s not…” Kennedy huffed out a sigh. “Look, the year before last, my travel companion came down with acute appendicitis three days into the trip. And due to severe rupturing—which was touch and go for a while—he had to spend six days in a private hospital in Florida after which, quite naturally, he wanted to fly straight home to be with his family. If he had taken a medical examination before the trip, it’s likely the appendicitis would have been diagnosed early, avoiding his suffering and my equally ruptured bank account.”

  “Ain’t got an appendix. Got it removed when I was eleven.”

  “That’s not the point—” Kennedy ran a hand through his hair. “I need to make sure the person accompanying me is fit and healthy in all respects. And that condition is non-negotiable. So if it’s a problem for you, then you need to let me know right away.”

  Francis stared down at the paper for so long that for a moment Kennedy thought he’d changed his mind.

  “You’ll pay?”

  “Sorry?”

  “For the medical?”

  “Of course.”

  “‘S’okay, then.”

  “Great. Any other questions for me?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Forty-two.”

  Francis grinned then. At least, that was what it appeared to be to Kennedy. Either that or the lad had wind.

  “You like ‘em young, then?”

  Kennedy had to stop himself from answering that more than anything, he liked them compliant. And most younger guys tended to be less free-willed, more willing to please, mainly because they needed the money.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Nope. I’m into Daddies.”

  Oh, heck, thought Kennedy, Steph is going to have a field day if Francis becomes this year’s chosen one.

  “So I’ve got your number. I’ll be in touch Friday.”

  When Francis stood, whether purposely or not, he yawned again and stretched his arms above his head so that the bottom of his tee rode up slightly to reveal a ripped stomach and a dark-blond trail of curly hair running down and disappearing beneath the waistband.

  Kennedy almost handed him the job right there and then.

  Chapter Two

  Kieran

  Four o’clock in the afternoon and Kieran West was tapping out a rhythm on a textbook with the rubber end of his pencil, trying to distract himself from the whiny voice across the room. If he didn’t get his postgrad social science essay on perestroika and glasnost in by Friday, there was no way the lecturer, who had already been more than lenient, would give him another stay of execution.

  Thursday afternoons in Sam’s Coffee House was his haven, his little slice of peace and quiet away from university, where he could concentrate in peace.

  Not today, though.

  Despite efforts to tune them out, he found distracting snippets of the interview being held by the smart-looking businessman across the room far more interesting than the transcript of Gorbachev’s 1986 speech at the 27th Congress of the Communist Party. However, the inane responses for some kind of personal assistant role, by either effeminate or muscled—but all essentially clueless—men, had begun to irritate.

  Four candidates later and Kieran had managed to surmise that the man needed an assistant to join him on a business trip to Southeast Asia. Phrases like ‘all expenses paid’ and ‘five thousand pounds cash in hand’ had really piqued his interest. What with his recent redundancy from the estate agents’, and still trying to support his own as well as his brother’s studies, and funds were running desperately low. Across the coffee shop, the loud whiny voice once again rose above everything.

  “I don’t know, do I?”

  “Do you at least have an up-to-date passport? With seven months outstanding.”

  The question seemed reasonable enough, but the girlishly pretty blond appeared to have an issue with this. Sharp nose and lips constantly pouting, his dyed hair had been styled almost Mohican fashion, with both sides rising into an untidy ridge in the middle from front to back, leaving him looking like a fair-haired chicken.

  “Seven months what outstanding?”

  “Before expiration.”

  “What?”

  “When’s the expiry date? The date the passport runs out?”

  “How should I know?”

  “In order to travel, you need to have at least six months remaining on your passport, plus an extra month to cover the four weeks away. I explained all of this in the advert. Did you bring your passport with you as I asked?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “‘Cos I bought a photocopy, didn’t I?” said the skinny blond, getting hostile. By now, Kieran would have told the little shit to take a hike. The older man appeared to have the patience of a nursery school teacher.

  “Can I take a look?”

  Almost reluctantly, the blond pulled a piece of paper out from his trouser pocket and tossed the crumpled mess across the table. Calmly, the man unravelled the sheet and peered at the information. Satisfied, he nodded once and jotted something down in his notepad.

  “Do you get seasick?”

  “How should I know?”

  This time the man squeezed his eyes shut, pinched the bridge of his nose, paused and inhaled deeply before continuing.

  “If you’re going to be on a cruise ship for fourteen days, you really ought to consider getting seasickness medication, just in case. There’s nothing worse than having motion sickness on a rocking ship with nowhere to hide.”

  “Can’t I skip the boat part? Just meet you in Bali.”

  “The job is for a holiday companion, for the whole duration. Either all the way, or none. Are you in, or are you out?”

  “In, I suppose.”

  As soon as the interview ended and the candidate sashayed out of the coffee shop, Kieran decided to make his move. Dumping himself into the recently vacated seat gave the man—who had been on his phone—a start, although, credit where it was due, he recovered quickly. After ending the call, he stared quizzically at Kieran, who began talking before the man had a chance to speak.

  “My name’s Kieran. Kieran West. I know this might sound a little unorthodox—or maybe even a little presumptuous—but I couldn’t help but overhear you interviewing for a personal assistant. I just wondered if I might be considered. I have a ten-year passport which has nine years outstanding and I can travel at any time.” That wasn’t strictly true. He would need to check with his tutor, to defer the next module of his master’s, as well as with his brother and mother to make sure they could do without him for four weeks. But he tucked those thoughts away and continued to smile. “And I have never suffered from seasickness.”

  While the man began to process Kieran’s words, his face went through a series of expressions, starting with incredulity, to irritation, and ending with what Kieran assumed to be humour.

  “Do you know what I’m advertising for?”

  “I think so. A personal assistant, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But a very specific kind of personal assistant. More of a specialised travelling companion.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Maybe if I ask you a few questions first, to determine your suitability?”

  “Fire away,” said Kieran, grinning and leaning back in his seat, arms folded.

  “Smoker or non-smoker?”

  “Non-smoker.”

  “Good. Do you drink? Alcohol?”

  “Occasionally, but not to excess.”

  “Excellent. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Hmm, I see. How ta
ll are you?”

  “Six-one.”

  “Okay. And how long have you been out of the closet?”

  “I—I’m sorry?” stuttered Kieran.

  “How long have you known you were gay?”

  “I’m not gay,” said Kieran, quietly.

  Folding his arms, the man let out a sigh and leaned back. At first he appeared to be waiting for Kieran to clarify, until something across Kieran’s shoulder caught his attention.

  “I believe my four o’clock has just arrived,” he said, pulling a document from a file. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you take this printed copy of the advertisement and this list of other requirements. I’m sure you’ll find it helps clarify certain critical elements of the role.”

  While Kieran stood, the man beckoned the new arrival over. A buff, good-looking candidate came to a halt next to him and gave him a coolly assessing once-over. This one had curly golden hair—clearly dyed—and looked to be a biracial mix of Caucasian and West Indian. Kieran moved back to his seat across the shop and began to skim the details, starting with the advertisement.

  Even before the end of the first paragraph, he let out a huff, knowing he didn’t fit the bill—not even close. The problem was, once Kieran West made up his mind to go for something, nothing short of an alien invasion could stop him. Besides, his funds had all but dried up. Five thousand pounds would keep the wolves from the door for a good while. He might even, finally, be able to offer his sister something for allowing him to doss down on her couch for the past three weeks. It was far from perfect, but better that than being on the streets. His girlfriend, Jennifer, had kicked him out of her apartment because he would not—could not—commit to anything more serious. ‘Ring or road’ had been her mantra. Wisely or not, he had chosen the road.

  As he scanned the last page—details of the cruise and places they’d be visiting along the way—the cold trickle of premonition stopped him. The ship would be stopping at the island of Koh Samui in Thailand. Although he would never tell another living soul about the experience, would never admit to being intrigued by something so fanciful, when he was twelve his group of four friends had taken turns to see the fortune teller at a school fete. Even now he remembered the old woman’s crinkled face. She had been the grandmother of one of the friends, wearing a red silk scarf around her head, silver hoops like curtain rings in her ears, and using an upturned fishbowl as a crystal ball. He remembered sitting patiently opposite as she spouted a lot of vague nonsense until she stopped and took a sharp, surprised breath before looking up, deep into his eyes.

  ‘I know this may sound strange and might not make sense right now, but there is something you must always remember. It doesn’t happen often, but I have just glimpsed an image of you from the future. You are on an island in Asia standing beneath a giant Buddha. You are waiting to meet your destiny.’

  One way or another, he had to get this job.

  Chapter Three

  Kennedy

  When the final candidate left at four-thirty—bisexual Leon, who had been drawn to the idea of a cruise but had not realised the holiday entailed long-haul flights and had admitted to suffering from an acute fear of flying—Kennedy sat back and mulled over who he should select. As shortlists went, this one could easily be labelled concise. Two choices actually, between the twenty-three-year-old, quiet but good-looking and gym-fit blond, Francis, who spoke very little but looked cute and would fit the bill fine, and the twenty-one-year-old ginger Ed Sheeran lookalike called Steven—’call me Ven’. Unlike Ed, he came across as talentless, camp and over-groomed, but could chat incessantly about media fluff and other mindless trivia, and had an infectious if slightly immature sense of humour. So the choice fell to two very different twinks, one of whom would fill the quiet moments with mindless banter, or the other who would say little, but look good by his side.

  Kennedy pushed his laptop lid down, to find the guy from across the coffee shop—Keegan?—sitting in the chair opposite him, his jacket and bag hung over the back, which did not bode well. If Kennedy was going to be brutally honest, this older man—yes, he was definitely a man compared to the non-shavers he’d interviewed so far—was easy on the eye. With palpable discomfort, the poor guy squirmed in his seat, wearing an earnest, if anxious, expression.

  “I’m in,” he said decisively, tossing the single sheet of paper containing the advert onto the top of the laptop, the document landing face down. Kennedy noticed that, on the back, he had written out a number of answers to questions in neat handwriting.

  “You’re in…what?”

  “I’d like to apply for the role.”

  “You’re…” Kennedy reached down, flipped the paper over and spun the advert around on the table. “Can you read the headline back to me?”

  “Gay holiday companion required.”

  “Gay holiday companion. Gay. We’ve already established you don’t qualify.”

  “Not necessarily. I read that as Gay Holiday.” For effect, the guy produced air quotes around the two words then paused. “Companion Required. What I mean is, it’s not clear whether you’re asking for a companion, someone to accompany you on a gay holiday, in which case surely I’m still eligible, or whether you’re asking for a gay companion to go on holiday with you.”

  Actually, the guy had a point. Had he shown them, Kennedy’s marketing and legal managers would have had a field day with the wording.

  “I told you already. The person needs to be gay.”

  “You do realise that’s discrimination.”

  “What?”

  “Just because I’m not gay doesn’t mean I can’t do the job.” What was with this man? No fear, no hesitation. Assertive and straight to the point. Kennedy liked those traits in work colleagues. Just not in his fake beaus. “Anyway, just how gay would you want this person to be? My uni friend is gay and he’s neither blond nor muscular.”

  “Get him to apply then.”

  “He has a boyfriend. And anyway, he doesn’t need the job. I do.”

  “Look, Keegan…”

  “Kieran.”

  “Kieran, then. I’m sure there are other jobs out there for you—”

  “There aren’t. And I don’t care, anyway. I want this one.”

  “Look—”

  “No, you look. I’m reasonably good-looking. I am sociable with all kinds of people in all sorts of situations. I am not homophobic—far from it. Yes, I might be older than your stated requirement—which is a bit ageist, by the way—but if you want someone to pass as a legitimate companion, then I am a way better choice than that queue of blond Justins you’ve just seen. How old are you, anyway?”

  “I’m forty-two.”

  “As far as contemporary age gaps are concerned, twenty-nine and forty-two could be deemed acceptable. Anything under twenty-four could be seen as questionable. Does the contract include these guys having to have sex with you?”

  Kennedy paused for a second. Was this guy trying to catch him out?

  “Of course not. Sex would be by mutual consent only.”

  “Excellent. So instead of worrying about whether this companion is going to put out or not, hire me and you can be sure right off the bat that I won’t.”

  “And how exactly do you intend to convince my friends you’re gay?”

  “I’m not. I’m guessing they know you wouldn’t bring along a straight guy. So if you’re asking whether I’ll adopt any mannerisms, or rethink my dress sense, then apart from accusing you of stereotyping—or worse still, internalised homophobia—I’d say you’re clearly out of sync with the new generation of gay men. Anderson Cooper, Tom Daley or Keegan Hirst, for example.”

  Not many people had Kennedy Grey at a loss for words, but this young man certainly had a way about him. Trouble defined him. Kennedy gave him his usual professional smile and decided to run with the path of least resistance.

  “Leave me your number and I’ll get back to you by the end of the week.”

  “You won’t though,
will you?” said Kieran, folding his arms.

  “Not if you don’t give me your number,” said Kennedy, slapping a pen on top of the advert before fishing for his wallet in his jacket pocket. “Here’s my business card. If I haven’t called you by Friday at four o’clock, feel free to ring my direct line.”

  Kieran scrawled his number on the sheet, then leaned back and studied the business card.

  “Kennedy Grey, CEO. Grey Havens Security Systems? The Kennedy Grey? Get out of here! You run the family business that installs digitalised commercial security systems? We covered your company in our master’s programme, successful family businesses of the new millennium. In the recent edition of Business Week your operations guy—Sloan something—didn’t rule out the possibility of you going public next year. You’ve pretty much got that niche area of the market sewn up.”

  The first thought that crossed Kennedy’s mind was why he hadn’t been told about the article in Business Week. Had his chief operating officer, Sloan Williamson, pulled another fast one behind his back? Not that he would be surprised, given the man’s ruthless ambition—one of the reasons Kennedy had hired him. But even so, Kennedy’s marketing team would normally have sanctioned the interview with him. And Sloan should not be speculating publicly about plans for a stock market launch. The second thing that struck him was that this man, Kieran, was clearly both informed and intelligent. And as far as travelling companions were concerned, that would never do.

  “One and the same,” said Kennedy, then sat back wide-eyed as an impressively sized Kieran rose and leaned across the table.

  “An absolute pleasure to meet you, Mr Grey,” he said, holding a large hand out. “And can I say, you are much better looking in the flesh.”

  Still seated, Kennedy leaned forward awkwardly and shook the offered hand. Kieran gripped a little too long, squeezing a couple of times, while maintaining almost uncomfortably consistent eye contact.

  “Gay enough for you?”

  Kennedy smirked then and rolled his eyes. Yes, this one would certainly cause a stir.

  “Thanks for your time, Kieran. I’ll be in touch.”