Another Cup of Coffee (8 page)

‘Yep. But I'll allow you to put the kettle on at the same time.'

‘So gracious.' Jack put the kettle under the tap, his thoughts in a quandary. Should he tell her about the tune that was whirling around his head? It could ruin everything, yet he had to. Every day he ignored the facts he was misleading her, not to mention himself. Keeping his back to Kit, Jack inhaled deeply, ‘I guess one of mine has to be Kylie's
“
Better the Devil You Know”.'

Kit pulled one of Jack's old oversized T-shirts over her head. ‘Kylie? You're kidding me. How textbook camp are you?'

Jack spoke levelly, knowing she had given him a second perfect lead into a confession. His brain remained undecided about whether to say anything more, but his mouth carried on regardless. With his eyes cast down he replied, ‘Well, my tastes are pretty camp to be honest, although I'm not sure about the textbook bit.'

Kit moved closer to him, refusing to acknowledge the tension which had filled the room. She spoke softly and carefully, already sure of what he was going to admit, ‘Tell me.'

‘I heard it when I was in that club in Nottingham.'

‘The gay one you went to with your mates for a laugh?'

‘Yes. Look Kit, I need to come clean about something.' Jack put down the mugs he'd been fiddling with and sat on the edge of the bed. He wanted to study her, gauge her reaction, but he couldn't bring himself to see the expression on her face. ‘The thing is I, well. First I … I do like you, I really, really like being with you, and I don't want to finish this, but it's just …' Jack sprang up and began to pace the room, taking out his confusion and frustration on the poorly carpeted floor boards.

Kit shuffled up behind Jack and grabbed his shoulders, making him stand still as she let him off the hook with a whispered, ‘But you can't work out if you're a straight bloke with kinks, bisexual, or as gay as a maypole with a totally understandable need to hang onto one last female relationship, in case there is a slim chance that you've got it all wrong.'

Jack stared at her in disbelief, whispering back, ‘How on earth did you know that?'

Kit mumbled something into the floor that Jack didn't catch, before she turned his face towards hers and looked him straight in the eye ‘I've known you a while. Your uncertainty is kind of obvious sometimes.' She grabbed the edge of the duvet, pulled him towards her and covered his lips in tiny kisses. ‘While you're deciding which side of the game you want to play on, perhaps you can make do with me.'

He peered into her face, his shock at her calm response to his bombshell, preventing him from moving away from what Kit was about to do. He spluttered out, ‘Why aren't you angry? Why aren't you throwing things?'

‘What would that change?' Kit tugged him back onto the bed and slid under the duvet.

October 7
^th
2006 – 3.00am

Jack gave up trying to sleep and headed for the bathroom. His dick had gone stiff. He could almost feel the blowjob Kit had given him. Angry with himself for not pushing her off then, and for the effect the memory of it had on him now, he wanked fiercely into the toilet. Why had she even done that? Why hadn't he seen it as a bloody weird response to what he'd just told her? And how could a memory, a memory of a
woman
for fuck's sake, get the better of him after all this time?

Jack wiped himself dry, sat back on the edge of his bed and tried to concentrate, determined to be honest with himself.

After Jack had told Kit everything she wanted to know, their relationship had got better, not worse as he'd expected. She'd let him do what he needed to do. He'd explored more and more of the local gay clubs and, providing he kept Kit fully informed of all his activities, she was always there to come back to whenever he needed her.

Kit hadn't been offended when he brought gay porn magazines into her flat, or if he chose male porn movies instead of the hetero stuff they'd occasionally enjoyed together. It was like leading two separate but happy lives, with one boot on each side of the fence.

Now, for the first time, as he shivered against the early morning chill, Jack realised he'd been a fool to stay with Kit once he'd admitted his doubts. A greedy fool who'd hung onto her, keeping his options open, just in case. It had suited him. After all, the idea of sex with a woman didn't repulse him, it never had. He was just damn sure he preferred it from a man.

Jack had been so relieved once Kit knew the truth that, not only did he stop pretending to himself; he stopped considering her feelings altogether. He'd felt so free, he'd pleased himself. A habit Jack now realised he hadn't really broken.

Why, oh why, hadn't he recorded that tape like he'd promised? When Amy had passed on her cassette, he hadn't hesitated to add Joy Division's number, even if it had taken him years to return it afterwards. If only he could remember what else Kit had chosen as her top five songs. Jack slid off the bed onto the floor, his head in his hands. How had this happened? Amy was in London, and now he'd upset Kit. He felt bewildered and disorientated.

Jack always avoided thinking about the past. It didn't fit with his happy-go-lucky image, not to mention his club-cruiser role. He'd never felt uncomfortable about his history of female conquests. But he was who he was, surely Kit could accept that? Even as he mulled things over, he knew he'd got that wrong too. Kit
had
accepted it. She'd been amazing. As soon as he'd admitted his confusion she'd been a tower of strength, had pledged undying friendship, and had helped him sort his life out. Kit was incredible. He needed her in his life. He'd call her.

Sounding bleary and disorientated, Phil's voice radiated anger, ‘Jack, it's nearly four o'clock in the bloody morning. What do you want?'

‘Sorry Phil, I just … is Kit awake?'

‘No she isn't, and neither was I. Whatever the problem is, you sort it on your own for once.'

Phil slammed the phone down. ‘Bloody man.'

Jack made tea and turned on the gas fire in his lounge, his mind see-sawing between the past and present, until it rested on that life-changing evening in Nottingham all those years ago.

Even now he was surprised by how comfortable he'd felt there. Although he'd been the one who'd organised the trip to a gay club with his friends, to see how the other half partied, Jack's palms had been sweaty, and it had taken more bottle than he'd care to admit to cross the threshold.

Before going in, he'd had visions of pink furnishings, twee gypsy styles, and muscly blokes in sailor-suits or minimal black leather outfits. Jack had been fractionally disappointed when it almost lived up to the cliché. Purple and stainless steel ruled, rather than pink, and although it favoured modern, rather spartan décor, it had hung onto the essential floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

There were indeed ‘sailors', S&M fans, and the most incredibly short shorts he'd ever seen, but they were definitely in the minority, giving way to the ubiquitous young men's uniform of T-shirts and jeans.

And women. Not that many of them admittedly, but women. He had been so worried about betraying himself to his mates that he'd forgotten about the lesbian contingent. He cursed himself for being so stupid, hoping his mates wouldn't leer too much. They all had serious fantasy issues in that direction.

The music, which was so loud it bounced off the walls, was a fantastic mix of the undeniably camp and general dance stuff. The regulars were used to students coming in to check the place out, and teased them enough to let them know they were tolerated, so long as they were only passing through, and didn't take the piss.

Jack had suspected he was giving off mixed signals, as he got rather more attention than his mates, much to their amusement and weeks of subsequent banter. This was confirmed for him when, plucking up enough courage to go to the gents', a laid-back young man with shoulder-length ginger hair and a soft Irish brogue had approached him.

‘When you've made your decision, come back and see me. I'm usually here on a Friday night.'

He'd left Jack then, moving out of the cloakroom and into the seething mass of bodies. Jack tried to locate him later, but couldn't spot him in the crowds, so he'd contented himself with watching the talent immediately before him, drinking way too much Diamond White while listening to Kylie blasting out of the speakers, and gradually feeling at ease in a nightclub for the first time in his life.

Thirteen

October 7
^th
2006

Jack woke with a start. He felt disorientated. Damn. He'd fallen asleep at his kitchen table, and at some point he'd knocked over his half-drunk mug of coffee. Pulling some paper towel from the roll, he began to mop up the sticky brown puddle that had started to form over the wooden table. Jack glanced at the clock. 8.30. Shit. He'd told Rob he would open the shop at nine, and now he was going to be late.

Staggering through to the bathroom, Jack splashed his face with cold water, sprayed too much deodorant under his arms, and stuffed his electric razor into his jeans pocket to use later. Throwing on a clean white shirt, Jack grabbed his keys and wallet and, ignoring his pneumatic drill of a headache, ran out of the door.

As Jack stood in the anonymous crowd of commuters, awaiting the next train link from Mortlake to Kew, he caught sight of an advert pasted on the opposite side of the station.
Cinema Tickets – 3 for the price of 2.

‘Three for two.' Jack played the phrase around his mouth, like a tongue irritating a sore tooth. As he took the tatty railcard out of his wallet, Jack winced, the now familiar tide of rage rising within him. An anger that was aimed solely at himself as he recalled that not only had he let Kit give him a blowjob that morning, but that he'd had sex with her the next day as well. For God's sake! What the hell had he been thinking? And what about Kit? Had the woman got no pride at all?

Jack considered the uncomfortable recollection as he stood cheek by jowl with his fellow passengers, remembering the song Kit had decided would be suitable for him the day after their top five song discussion.

It had come to her as she'd showered, and was a piece of music that, Kit declared, should be dedicated to him; one that summed up how she felt about him, about their relationship. Jack cringed inwardly as he remembered how he, caught up in Kit's childlike enthusiasm, had thoughtlessly announced that he'd decided on a tune for her too. He hadn't even had to think, it had come to him instantly as he stood with her. He wished it hadn't.

Kit had chosen ‘I'll Stand By You' by The Pretenders for him. With particular reference she'd said, to the bit about confessions not changing anything. Jack had been blown away. It had fitted their last twenty-four hours together so well. It said so much. It still did. It might even have been amusing, if Kit had got in first. But she hadn't.

If only he'd hesitated. If only he hadn't blurted out that he'd always associate Meatloaf's ‘Two Out Of Three Ain't Bad' with her
before
Kit had mentioned her choice for him. The clouded hurt had darkened her face for only a millisecond before she'd replaced it with her ‘I don't mind' mask; but Jack had seen her momentary lapse. The hurt had shown, however briefly, before Kit laughed, claiming the lyrics were “most fitting”.

‘Barely a crack in her mask,' Jack mumbled to himself, thinking of the younger Kit as the crowded train moved off, ‘until now.' Suddenly it seemed so obvious that she'd been in love with him.
Too up yourself to notice, as usual
. Jack felt sick as he closed his eyes to London as it whizzed past the train window.

For a change, Jack was glad the shop was so quiet. Time to stop making excuses, and start putting together the endlessly discussed website. Rob would never actually do it, and anyway he needed to work, keep his brain active before it unearthed anything else from the dusty catacombs of his memory.

After an hour of failing to get the initial stages of the site started, Jack slammed his fist against the computer mouse, cracking its top and sending it skidding across the desk. It was a relatively simple task, but his psyche kept veering off into the diverse cock-ups of his past.

‘Sod this.' He got up and filled the kettle.

The door swung open, and Rob walked in, ‘Jack?'

‘Making coffee, you want some?'

‘Thanks.' Rob came through to the back, catching sight of the cracked mouse as he circumnavigated the desk, on his way to the tiny kitchen-come-stock room. ‘You OK?'

‘Sure.' Jack stirred an extra spoonful of sugar into his drink.

‘You don't look OK, you look rough.'

‘So would you if you'd been trying to get that fucking computer to do what you want. Christ, this place is depressing! What the hell are we doing here anyway?'

‘Well, I'm hanging up my coat, getting ready to earn a meagre living, and you're earning pocket money to supplement the family fortune.'

Rob exhaled deeply. He'd been in a relatively good mood only a moment before and, once again, Jack had brought him to only a decibel away from shouting. ‘What are you talking about? This is what we do. Given the odd customer we do all right. It's a bad time of year for us, you know that. Once the tourists return at Easter, we'll be fine again.'

‘Oh I don't mean … Oh shit. I have no idea what I mean.'

Rob was quieter now, sensing that this wasn't just Jack being Jack. This was something else. His friend appeared somehow defeated. ‘Do you want me to have a crack at the web site instead?'

Jack sat back down at the computer, ‘No, it's fine. I'll do it. I can't focus today that's all.'

‘You want to talk about it over this repulsive brew?' Rob pulled a face at the instant coffee. Decaf, for God's sake! If ever there was a morning that required full-strength, good-quality caffeine, then this appeared to be it.