Any Day Page 3

  “Yeah, I remember him now.”

  “Used to play rugger. Pretty bloody good, too, if I remember right. You never played the sport, did you?”

  “Not in high school. Unless I had to. But I got into tennis at college. Didn’t Lamperton get an offer to play for one of the big clubs?”

  “Leeds Rhinos? Never happened. Didn’t finish school. Something to do with his father.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  Eric leant forwards then, his shiny nose not far from Leonard’s face, his voice lowered.

  “Apparently, he’s a poofter.”

  “His father?”

  “No! His father’s dead. Him. Adrian Lamperton.”

  “Oh.”

  Leonard raised an eyebrow and looked over again. Something they had in common.

  “You wouldn’t know to look at him, would you?”

  Leonard threw himself back in his seat aghast and studied Eric to assess whether he truly meant the remark.

  “Poofters have a look now, do they?”

  “You know what I mean. He doesn’t, you know, have any of those mannerisms. And, apparently, he’s in the building trade.”

  “Seriously?” said Leonard, wondering if he’d stepped back in time. “Where the hell is Gareth Thomas when you need him? Is that still how you identify a gay man in this backwater? Jesus, Eric, I’ve worked beside lots of men who are interior designers, some with flamboyant mannerisms, but only a few were gay. Add to that the brickies or roofers I’ve employed, built the size of a Rolls-Royce jet engine, totally straight-acting but openly gay and proud, and you’d frankly give up trying to pigeonhole anyone. I thought those clichés died a death with the last century, but they’re clearly still alive and well in Norwich.”

  “Okay, okay. Calm down, Mister Politically-bloody-correct,” said Eric, laughing feebly. Leonard felt rattled but was not in the mood to lecture his cousin. Instead, he suggested they should drink up and go before excusing himself to use the pub's toilet.

  When he returned along the corridor, the formidable figure of Lamperton came towards him, his gaze trained on the floor in front of him. As he approached, he raised his head and met Leonard's scrutiny. For a split second, something resembling recognition widened his eyes, but almost immediately the gaze fell back to the carpet. Without slowing his pace, he passed Leonard in silence.

  Only Lamperton’s eyes spoke of a troubled life, with shadowed bags beneath them and permanent worry lines carved between his eyebrows. But what Leonard remembered most of all was the colour, an incredible golden-brown hue which complemented his tan skin and dark-red hair.

  So Lamperton had turned out gay, too, thought Leonard. Isn’t life full of little ironies?

  Chapter Two

  Habit

  Adrian Lamperton strolled the street towards his flat, a taupe and mandarin backpack dangling from his right shoulder, downcast eyes scouring the pavement. Lenny Day’s face haunted his thoughts. Angry Lenny—the moody junior at Cranmer Secondary—back then already a good-looking boy, had indeed grown into a fine-looking man. He sported a full head of dark hair with a few grey wisps and a matching beard, both well-groomed, which made him even sexier. One of the untouchables, unfortunately. Even if there had been a remote possibility of Lenny being attracted to other men, he was well out of Adrian’s league. Too good-looking, too smart, and more than likely successful bearing in mind how comfortable he seemed in his skin. No, Lenny Day was light-years from anything Adrian had to offer.

  High school had been a long time ago. Lenny had been one of the few who hadn’t hero-worshipped Adrian, had openly scowled at him during his early years there, every time they’d passed each other in the school corridor. To this day Adrian had no idea why, which is why he’d avoided his gaze earlier when they walked past each other. Not that Lenny would remember him. Adrian raised his head when the sign for Hope Street came into view and breathed out a chuckle. No hope, more like, he thought, then wondered what had brought Lenny back to town. People who managed to escape from Drayton rarely returned.

  Caught on a rogue breeze, odours of fragrant fried food caught his stomach’s attention and had his mouth watering. Turning a corner, he faltered to a stop outside one of Drayton’s two Chinese takeaways, Hong Kong House, and peered inside, relieved to find the waiting area empty. As soon as the door pinged open, a cheeky young Asian face shot up from behind the counter.

  “Lemme guess,” said the son of the Malaysian Chinese owner who was far too young to be working there but enjoyed bantering with customers. “Sweet and sour chicken balls in batter, special fried rice and crispy spring rolls?”

  Staring at the boy, Adrian wondered if he was becoming predictable, whether he should choose something different. Absently, he walked to the counter, picked up a copy of the laminated menu and scanned both sides. But he already knew he’d order his usual. Uncle Pat, who had taken him in and found him a job after the events he never wanted to remember had gone down, had once called him a ‘creature of habit’. At the time Adrian hadn’t understood the expression, but now he could see how insightful his uncle had been. Putting the menu back down, he nodded to Bernard.

  “Thought so. You’re one of our reliables, Mr Ralph,” said the boy, scrawling the order onto a notepad as if he could hear Adrian’s thoughts. Since his first time to the takeaway, the boy had referred to him as Mr Ralph, and he’d never known or asked why. Until one of the young bar staff at the Red Lion had overheard him mentioning the fact and started laughing, told him he was being compared to the lead character in an arcade game called Wreck-It Ralph.

  “Hey, why don’t you download our app? If you order online, they remember your past orders, so you just press repeat each time. And we’ll have everything ready for you to pick up. Or we can even deliver straight to your door, save you a trip.”

  Adrian rubbed a hand across his mouth to cover his grin. The way the world continuously sought out ways to streamline everything in life and, in doing so, avoid human contact, he’d never have to step outside his front door again. Oddly enough, that simple thought simultaneously warmed and terrified the hell out of him.

  “Don’t even know how to operate the camera on my phone.” That wasn’t strictly true, but he enjoyed seeing the look of shocked disgust on the boy’s face. “If I had my way, I’d still be using my old Nokia 3310.”

  “They’re back in production, did you know? Nokia’s resurrected them. Sick retro styles in bright colours, but all fitted with modern apps and add-ons. Pretty damn cool, actually.”

  Adrian shook his head and breathed out a sigh of exasperation.

  “Ha! I bet you still have one of them Sony cassette things—”

  “Walkman.”

  “—and a crappy old black and white television the size of a packing crate?”

  “Just put my order in, please,” said Adrian firmly, while still unable to keep the smirk from his face. Although he didn’t have a Walkman, he did have an old-style colour television. The old boxy type as the boy had correctly guessed, not a modern flatscreen.

  “Hello, Mr Lamperton. Don’t worry, love. I’ve already prepared your order,” came the cheerful voice of the boy’s mother, only her mouth and nose appearing in the small kitchen hatch before she issued a scary screech. “Bernard! I told you before. Stop annoying the blinking customers.”

  “Yes, Ma,” called the boy, while sharing a conspiratorial grin with Adrian.

  Adrian paid up the usual amount, and as he took a seat on one of the chairs dotted around the walls, his mobile phone rang.

  “Lamp—”

  “It’s Pete,” interrupted the familiar voice of his pal, Pete Ross.

  “Hey, mate. What’s up?”

  “Job’s off next week.”

  “Oh,” said Adrian, unable to mask his disappointment. “I see.”

  “Old man Mackerson pulled the plug. Says he doesn’t have the funds right now.”

  Adrian cursed silently under his breath. He’d been relying on work at
the Mackerson property mainly to keep him busy but also to help top up his depleted current account until May when better weather usually meant business ramping up. Work in the building trade had almost seized up since before Christmas. The Mackerson job—laying the foundations and building the extension at the back of the house—would’ve kept him busy and in credit for the next three months. Now he only had a couple of odd jobs to tide him over.

  “Have you forked out for any gear?” Adrian asked.

  “Partially. But nothing I can’t reuse, if he pulls out entirely.”

  “Okay. Well, thanks for letting me know.”

  Pete stayed on the line, probably sensing Adrian’s disappointment.

  “Look, if anything else comes up in the meantime, I’ll call you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But you know what it’s like this time of year.”

  “Of course I do.”

  With the call ended, he threw himself back in the chair. Somehow or another he needed another plan of action, not really because of the money but because too much time alone and being inactive might threaten to put Adrian back in a dark place. And he never wanted to go anywhere near there again.

  “Were your ears burning last Friday?” asked the boy, Bernard, peering over the counter.

  “My what?”

  “Your ears. Mrs Sullivan at 26 Collywell Lane was in here nonstop talking about you. I think she fancies you.”

  Adrian dropped his gaze to the floor and grinned. Septuagenarian Eileen Sullivan had been widowed for two years. When his mother mentioned any of her church friends having problems about the house—Mrs Sullivan’s being her broken central heating—Adrian took that as a cue for him to help. The poor woman had spent most of the winter in one room under a blanket, using an old electric heater to keep her warm. Adrian knew most heating systems and, by trial and error—checking the thermostat, boiler pilot light and bleeding the radiators—had gotten her system back up and running. When helping his mother’s friends, payment always came in terms of a large mug of tea. One of his builder buddies had told him he was too nice for his own good and would make a hopeless businessman.

  When he looked up, a bag of food sat in a white plastic bag on the counter. Getting to his feet, he went to the counter and found Bernard playing an arcade game on his phone.

  “This mine?” he called out.

  “See anyone else in here?” said Bernard, without even looking up from the game.

  Adrian huffed out a sigh, picked up the bag and headed out, but stopped to hold the door open as a young couple walked in, hand in hand. For a few seconds, he watched, envying their closeness, before flipping up the collar on his jacket and heading for home.

  Barely a soul inhabited the high street on his way back. From time to time, cars hissed by on the damp tarmac, their wheels slick with the recent rain. As he turned the corner into the road where his apartment block lay, he stopped abruptly.

  Parked on the road behind his truck sat a familiar white Ford Fiesta, the number plate instantly recognisable. The occupant had clearly spotted him because the driver’s door began to open. Annoyance spiked in Adrian, even though he tried to tell himself to remain calm.

  “What do you want, Nick?” he called out, remaining where he stood.

  “Come on, Ade. Is that any way to greet a mate?”

  “You’re not my mate. Go home to Janice. She needs you.”

  “Like hell she does. She won’t let me near her.”

  Nick leaned against his car, and even with a hand braced on the bonnet for support, he still swayed. He’d been drinking heavily.

  “She must be about due, so of course she’s irritable. Go home in case she needs you.”

  “Bollocks. She don’t even want touch—want me to touch her. Told me to leave her alone—”

  “How much have you drunk?”

  “What do you care? Fuck all else to do these days.”

  Adrian let out a deep sigh. Six months ago, one Friday night, he’d made a classic mistake. Usually when the need to let off sexual steam took him, he would board the two-hour express train to London and book into one of the bulk standard hotels he knew so well for the weekend. Once there, he would trawl the abundant gay scene for a random and, most importantly, anonymous hook-up. Exorcise the demons, so to speak. Best of all, he could do so and disappear in the morning, knowing he’d never have to see or hear from the person again.

  Why he’d wandered into the small gay bar in Norwich—Chappies—tucked away down one of the backstreets, he couldn’t say. Rule number one in his book—never hook-up on your doorstep, because even as a city, Norwich was simply too small. But he had broken the rule and there at the bar he’d stumbled upon handsome Nick, who’d bought him a drink and chatted amiably then eagerly accepted the offer to come back to Adrian’s apartment. A voracious bottom, Nick had pushed all the right buttons for the no-strings hook-up—no foreplay, kissing or intimate touching, just a pure sexual workout—then disappeared. With hindsight, he should never have agreed to swap numbers, or to subsequent casual sex.

  Two months ago, they’d bumped into each other at midday on the pedestrian crossing on the high street in Norwich. Nick had been pushing a young boy in a pushchair and had accompanied a beautiful but heavily pregnant woman. A flustered Nick had quickly introduced Adrian as an old friend from school and presented his wife, Janice, and son, Todd. Since then, Nick had turned up twice to Adrian’s flat and been told to go home in no uncertain terms. Adrian had taken only one of his calls, where Nick had repeatedly apologised until Adrian quietly accepted before telling him to have a good life. At first, he’d also blocked Nick’s number, until the man had started ringing his shared site office, leaving messages with his workmates.

  “Look, I just want a chat. Don’t have anyone else. Five minutes. And looks like you got enough grub in the bag for two.”

  “Nick, you’ve got to stop this.”

  “I’ll just stay for a minute, I promise.”

  “And you’ll get a cab home, if I call one? You’re not driving in that condition.”

  “I said I promise, didn’t I?”

  “Don’t mess me around, Nick. I’m not in the mood. I’ll make you some black coffee, give you a share of this food then call you a cab. That’s it. You’re not staying.”

  Adrian’s flat, a former council block, sat in a tree-lined side road off Drayton high street. Nick staggered ahead of him over to the now-familiar double-glass front door and the entry system. Adrian joined him and punched in the number, and a few steps inside unlocked the front door to his apartment. Standing to one side, he let Nick in first and from the rancid breath, could tell Nick had drunk his fair share of beer and spirits that night.

  Adrian closed the door behind them and followed with soft footfalls on the tiled floor. At the end of the corridor, Nick had opened another door into the compact flat with its single bedroom, separate bathroom and an open kitchen overlooking the small living area. Since moving in five years ago, Adrian had made a few improvements—replaced the windows at the front with double-glazing to cancel out the noise of traffic, added a modern kitchen and appliances to make the place more functional, even provided a lick of paint to freshen the home up. His only personal touch came in the form of black and white photographs lining the hall corridor of old houses he’d helped build or renovate. In his living room, a poster-sized picture of one of Kevin McCloud’s Grand Designs projects, one of his most ambitious projects set on the borders of Wales and England, filled his living room wall.

  “Sit down and I’ll make you a coffee.”

  Familiar with the layout, Nick headed straight for the settee, but perched unsteadily on the arm and watched Adrian move around the kitchen.

  “Got anything stronger?”

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  “Fuck’s sake,” said Nick, scowling at the carpet. “You sound like my missus.”

  Adrian stopped filling the kettle and stared at Nick. Afte
r a moment, he went to the fridge and pulled out a can of lager. For a second, he was about to toss the tin to Nick, but then thought better and brought it over.

  “Thanks, mate.”

  Adrian said nothing, and once he’d watched Nick snap open the ring top, he returned to the kitchen to plate the food.

  “How do you do it?” Adrian asked calmly.

  “How do I do what?”

  “Live with yourself. Sneaking around and getting fucked by men behind your wife’s back?”

  “You may find this hard to believe, but I love Jan. And I don’t know what you’re thinking, but sex between us is amazing. I have no complaints there. She just can’t give me everything I need.”

  Nick took an emphatic gulp of the beer, swaying a little on the arm of the chair.

  Having finished divvying up the food, and pulling out a couple of forks from the cutlery drawer, Adrian brought both plates into the living room and handed one to Nick.

  “You’ve seriously never been with a woman?” asked Nick, putting his beer down and shovelling a forkful of fried rice into his mouth

  “No.”

  “What? Not even in high school? Good-looking bloke like you?”

  “Not even in high school.”

  “A boyfriend, then?”

  “No boyfriend.”

  Adrian didn’t want to talk about his situation. He had dealt with his fill of messy and complicated things at far too young an age and didn’t need any more now.

  “Bloody hell. That sounds lonely.”

  “I do okay. I get what I need, whenever I need it.”

  “Yeah, don’t you just. That huge fucking cock of yours is addictive. Why do you think I keep coming back for more?”

  Both men continued to eat in silence. When Nick put down his half-eaten food on the coffee table and picked up his beer, Adrian spoke.