Ollie Always (11 page)

The chef was out with the barbecue, so they had the place to themselves.

Tom began juicing the oranges. Ollie felt deflated and lied to. Pretty much the story of his life then.

“What’s wrong?” Apparently, annoying gits could ask pertinent questions and juice at the same time.

Ollie levered himself up onto the counter next to the machine. Tom pushed him off. “It’s unhygienic to sit on food preparation areas. You don’t know where your backside’s been.”

Ollie replied gloomily, “Actually I do. Nowhere.”

Tom smirked and Ollie smiled a little.

“That wasn’t me. With the Anglo-Saxon tutor and a copy of
Freshmen
. That was Oliver. I think I’m going mad, Tom.” Embarrassingly, Ollie felt tears threatening and turned to the fridge to get some more water. A hand landed lightly on his shoulder, and then he was eased into a hug. Tom kissed into his hair. It was a chaste kiss, but his lips stayed, pressed against Ollie’s head.

“Maybe she was the one who wasn’t there.”

Ollie pulled away sharply, his eyes narrowed. Tom raised one brow. “Have more faith in yourself, Ollie-Always. No one else knows that Oliver’s story isn’t yours—or, if they suspect it, they can’t actually pinpoint which are the real parts and which your mother makes up. Maybe they all assume harmless jokes like that are entirely real.”

“You think Leticia’s
faking
being at Cambridge?”

Tom made a sort of
I dunno
noise. “She’s a writer, isn’t she?”

“Wants to be…”

“There you go. She’s dating an old fart three times her age who coincidentally happens to be a publisher and probably faking her credentials. Hardly original.”

“David isn’t an—should I tell him?”

“Why? If her book’s crap it won’t get published, will it?”

Ollie began to laugh. He caught the expression on Tom’s face and tried to stop, eventually heaving himself to merely hiccupping with a supreme effort of will. “You don’t read much, do you?”

Tom gave him a playful slap. “Back to the food, and you’re going to eat something and no more drinking, okay?”

Ollie nodded. He had agreed to many things in his life that he’d had no intention of actually doing. Tom handed him the jug of juice. “Go make nice with your mum. She’s come a long way to see you.”

Ollie snorted. That was even more ridiculous than thinking crap novels didn’t get published.

§§§

Ollie often reflected how much easier his life would be if he actually hated his mother. He was watching her now as she lit a cigarette, her face turned perfectly to the action of lighting so she was caught in profile. She never really inhaled or allowed the smoke anywhere near her skin. It was an affectation, and he almost admired her for it. She hadn’t started smoking until it had become an unpopular thing to do, and she challenged the anti-smoking rules everywhere, even though she wasn’t addicted, and very rarely smoked in private.

No one could doubt they were related. He too was tall and, he supposed, willowy, although he was secretly hoping that if Tom had his way he’d be something more manly than that soon. There
were
male willows, obviously, or the willow species would have died out, but you didn’t think
guy
when you thought of willows. If you ever did give them a moment’s consideration, that is. Both he and his mother had dark hair and now that hers was short—messy baby bob apparently—they were even more alike. They were both, he supposed, androgynous. This slightly romantic-doomed-poet aspect was ideal for her life as the author of the Oliver books.

After all, who would buy books about sex written by someone weighing over three hundred pounds?

Exactly.

His eyes were her eyes. He could see this sometimes in the mirror. When he stood quickly, razor in hand, occasionally he would catch her looking back. Though his were slightly darker blue, and his lashes were longer. As were Oliver’s, of course. Once, Oliver had sported freckles on his nose—a light dusting, but they’d been gone in subsequent books.

They were trapped, the three of them, and could not now escape.

She gestured for him to sit next to her, and he complied. They were a little way away from the others, out of earshot if they kept their voices down, but also, as importantly, secluded in the darkness. He plucked her wine bottle from her and poured himself a large slug.

“This was a lovely surprise, darling. Very nicely arranged. I do hope you didn’t work too hard. Did you have a chance to water the azaleas? They’re absolutely gorgeous, aren’t they? You should see the grounds at home, Oliver. They’re simply magnificent this year. I think it’s the summer we had. So, how is the book coming along?”

“I thought writers knew never to ask that of another writer.”

She shrugged. “I’m asking as your mother.”

“Fine. It’s coming along very well.”

“Do you have a title yet?”

“Adventures in Shit.”

“Don’t be like this, darling.” She pursed her lips for a moment. “Do you remember that rewriting of Shakespeare you did for your A Levels? What was it? Much Ado?”

“Merchant of Venice.”

“You wrote the whole story from Antonio’s point of view—this great doomed love that he had for Bassanio. I think that, bar none, it was the most moving and beautifully written piece I have ever read. You are a gifted writer. Don’t ever forget that. Travellers aren’t always travelling. Sometimes they have to simply watch the stars and observe their courses before they can set sail.”

“Have you just called me a space cadet?”

She smiled sadly. “I wish you’d come home. Think about coming back with us in January, will you?”

“You’re seriously going to stay here all through Christmas?”

“Of course. Why not? David has some meetings in Auckland I expect he’ll pop off to. Jonas and Luke can write here as well as they can write anywhere.”

They gave each other conspiratorial looks at the hidden comment on such masterpieces as the co-authored
Suck and Suckability
, and chuckled at the same time. “Anyway, darling, tell me how you met the fascinating Tom.”

“We’re not
met
. We didn’t
meet
. You make it sound—”

“Good God, Oliver. All right, tell me why a man called Tom Collins is sitting at my patio table, eating…what is that horrible green stuff?”

Ollie smirked. “He’s bought old Doug Hanon’s place.”

“Really?”

“He’s ex-army.”

“Not your sort, I’d have thought.”

“I don’t have a sort, and we’re not…sorting. We’re just friends. He’s in Queenstown to meet up with some old friends, so I told him he could stay here. That’s all.”

“Oliver’s getting rather bored with his artist. Maybe he could meet your David Gandy, and they could—”

“Oliver is not real, Mother. And Tom is happily married.”

“What!” She blinked. She sounded genuinely shocked, and the talk around the table stopped, all eyes on her. She recovered and gave a wan nod, waving her hand imperiously, but she whispered furiously to Ollie, “What do you mean he’s married?”

It had occurred to Ollie that it would be very convenient for him while his mother was around if Tom were a little more married than he actually was. “She’s called Janice. She’s coming over to join him soon. I think he said she was pregnant. First baby.”

“What!” She took a long drag of her cigarette, squinting down the table into the gloom, seeming to consider this.

“So, you see, just friends.”

Ronnie nodded as if she had accepted this assessment and then said quietly to Ollie, “Be a darling and dismiss the staff for the night, Oliver. I think I’ll head off to bed.”

Surprised, but more than happy to end the evening, Ollie rose and went to speak to the chef and the waiters. When he returned, his mother had gone. Tom’s chair was also empty.

It took a while for Ollie to process this, and he didn’t like the scenario he came up with to explain their very noticeable absence.

Unwilling to be pathetic enough to actually confirm his suspicions, he nevertheless went into the house and peered in all the main living rooms. Eventually, he heard raised and angry tones from the garage. He wasn’t aware his mother even knew they had a garage, but it was clearly her voice, and Tom’s.

Before he could get close enough to hear what was going on, the internal door opened. Ollie slipped into a spare bedroom and watched through a crack as his mother swept by. He assumed by the rumble of the automatic garage opener that Tom was seeking escape another way.

Puzzled, anxious, and some other emotion he refused to admit might be jealousy, Ollie went back to the patio. It appeared as if everyone had decided to follow Ronnie’s example. Perhaps they’d taken the staff leaving as a strong hint that the party was over.

Ollie slumped dejectedly on a bench, replaying the scene in his mind. As far as he could see there was only one explanation for Tom and his mother disappearing together and then arguing. The disagreement wasn’t bothering him at all; it was the leaving together that was the pisser.

He heard a noise in the darkness and looked up sharply. Tom was silhouetted against the distant landscape. He was standing on the lawn, staring up at the mountains. If he’d been on his knees, Ollie would have said that Tom was praying.

He rose hesitantly, wanting to find out what was going on, but not wanting to know at the same time. Tom heard him and twisted his head around, his features not visible. He didn’t walk away, so Ollie went across the lawn, slowly, arms around himself as much from the cold as from protection against other things equally as unpleasant.

Ollie could smell the azaleas, redolent in the metallic mountain air. Tom was plucking petals off a bush and turned when Ollie reached him.

They stared at each other, and all of Ollie’s bravado withered on the silent reception. He couldn’t ask, couldn’t bear to be given the likely answer.

Suddenly, Tom put the back of his hand to Ollie’s hip. It was the sort of gesture you made to a door handle in a fire—to test safely for heat. Ollie swallowed deeply, not sure where this was going, or, more to the point, where he wanted it to go.

He leant forward a little, his gaze holding Tom’s. There was a moment when he thought a kiss would be welcomed, something in Tom’s dark eyes that appeared to draw him on, but when he initiated one, Tom turned his head abruptly away, and Ollie was left with the striking jaw shadowed against starlight and remote as those tiny pricks of light.

But Tom’s hand was still curled in supplication in the hollow of Ollie’s hip.

Unmoving, intent had still not been established.

But parts of Ollie
had
moved, so
his
intent was fairly obvious.

Tom licked his lips. “Guys can
do stuff
without having to be gay. You know that, right?”

“Go to the cinema? Play football? Yes, I know that.”

“Stop being funny, Ollie. You know what I mean.”

“Did you? In the army?”

Tom didn’t confirm this one way or the other but almost ground out, “Only if you want to.”

Ollie reached out his hand and discovered that the want was mutual.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

There, in the bright-star darkness of the mountain night, they came together.

Tom wouldn’t kiss him and kept his mouth shut, his neck rigid and tipped back, but his hands were keen enough.

Ollie relaxed into the urgent fumbling until he felt a strong squeeze on his cock. Tom’s hold was icy and Ollie arched into the contrast. Tom’s other hand grabbed at him—shoulder, collarbone—then throat. He held Ollie like a dogcatcher restraining a feral animal—arm extended, big grip wrapped around Ollie’s neck, and all the time he continued to wring him below.

Ollie flung an arm up and broke the chokehold, and only then did Tom seem to return to awareness of where they were, what they were doing. His focus wrenched away from the slip slap of flesh below. Ollie stopped his ministrations. Tom’s eyes widened. Ollie had been in a few situations like this before and knew the signs of extreme danger. He braced for the moment when it all turned into his fault, but Tom seemed to visibly shrivel, along with parts of Ollie, which had given up the ghost long before he’d started to choke.

“Oh, God. Oh, God, what have I done?” It was the first time Ollie had heard self-accusation in such an occurrence. He tidied himself, watching as Tom dry-washed his face, the rasp of his stubble so loud it overcame their ragged panting.

“What do you want, Tom?”

Tom yanked down his hands. “What do
I
want? Me? Jesus fucking Christ, Ollie, isn’t that obvious?”

Ollie’s brows shot up. “
Obvious!
What fucking dictionary are you using today, because it surely isn’t one the rest of the English speaking world is.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Ollie saw his error as soon as the words left his mouth. He’d tiptoed around fragile egos his whole life; he should have known better.

Tom raised his fist. Ollie flinched. Tom appeared genuinely shocked and upset, and Ollie got that Tom had had no intention of hurting him.

There seemed nothing much either of them could say after that.

Ollie walked away first.

He didn’t look back, but for the whole stretch of the lawn he expected a hand to fall upon his shoulder and for Tom to be contrite and warm and friendly once more. Sometimes the frustrations of not being able to make real life bend to his will were too much to bear. None of that would happen. Tom was a self-loathing, straight-man cliché.

When he climbed into his cold bed, Ollie realised his alcohol high had entirely evaporated.

Sobriety was a bit of a pisser.

Or it could have been the little incident in the azaleas making him cry.

But whether this was because the hand job had been a disaster, or because they’d attempted one at all, was beyond his power to decide.

§§§

Ollie didn’t do nine o’clock normally.

He never did it after a drinking binge the night before.

Going to bed sober, however, was so rare for him that he’d not slept well. It could have been other things keeping his mind whirling and his guts clenching, of course.