Ollie Always (23 page)

Ollie stopped and nodded seriously.

“That bastard.”

“Perhaps he was jealous. Felt shut out. Wanted you all for himself.”

This sent Tom into a deep reverie, possibly rethinking his whole relationship with his ex-best friend. Ollie grinned to himself and pushed past Tom to rescue the pan of water, which had finally begun simmering.

He perched very gingerly on the edge of the Z-bed, waiting patiently for Tom to remember the tea.

Tea seemed vital, as it would delay the necessity to think about other things they’d probably both assumed they might be doing together in the shed by now. Ollie had definitely pictured it, except his imaginary shed had been rather fetchingly fitted out—rustic but charming.

He wasn’t sure what to do now.

If he were writing another book, and he and Tom were merely characters, he’d have them both heading straight for the airport, the dog in a suitable travelling crate, and all three of them would return to England. He’d then buy a cottage in Devon with an attached workshop and a room with a view for him as his study for writing. They’d forge a new life with each other, living quite happily on his trust fund, wildly successful both as a furniture maker and a writer, but in reality not letting either of these occupations be more than hobbies, because, of course, their main pastime would be making passionate love in a huge Victorian brass bed which they’d carefully chosen to go with the ambience of the cottage. He would cultivate roses, possibly. Tom would take the dog out for long runs on Dartmoor. The dog might even re-grow its leg in Ollie’s book to facilitate this charming scene. Anything was possible.

But Ollie had been without sugar now for a year. The lack of it had created changes in both body and mind—some subtle, some more noticeable. The one
he’d
noticed most was his new clarity of mind. Life was not fiction. Ollie could see quite clearly that it was imperative Tom not discover that selling one small children’s story didn’t turn him into a male JK Rowling. He had a little left over from buying his bag of chestnuts at the fair, but not much. Somehow he had to persuade Tom that his writing was now earning a decent income, and that, consequently,
he
did not have to live in this horrible place. Tom had to be coaxed out of his self-imposed punishment shed. That he was practising deceit on Tom so early on in their budding relationship did not worry Ollie unduly. What Tom had done to him was despicable. What
he
was doing was for the greater good. Clarity of mind.

Tea finally made and handed over, Tom sat extremely cautiously on the bed next to Ollie. Ollie contemplated his milk-free offering and sipped it experimentally. He had a good opening all ready. “I don’t think as the crow flies you’re very far from my mother’s place here.”

Tom nodded. “About half an hour over a couple of ridgelines, I reckon.” Good, Tom had already thought about this.

“You could…I don’t know…stay with me and come over here to work during the day? Give you a break for a few days…”

“Are you staying at your mother’s place permanently?”

Ollie wasn’t, but slowly, slowly catchee monkey, he’d once been told, which seemed a very odd thing to tell a small boy now that he came to think about it.

“Well, for a while, I suppose. I have to go back eventually for the book release…”

“I can’t believe you actually got one written—I mean, sorry. That came out wrong. I meant I knew you’d write a novel one day. I
knew
it.”

Ollie smiled to show he’d taken no offence but got the conversation back on track. “So, you could, couldn’t you…? Stay with me but just work here…Or I suppose—here’s a thought—you could rent some workshop space in a unit in Queenstown—even more convenient.”

Tom shook his head despondently. “I looked into all this when you—when I came back here. I’ve ended up in the most expensive bloody place in the entire world I think.”

Well, wasn’t that another excellent cue? “You don’t have to stay in New Zealand at all, I suppose…Maybe when I go home, you could…come with me? I have a place…” He didn’t, but he would if he could catchee Tom Collins. Way better than any monkey.

Tom left off staring morosely at his tea and turned his gaze to Ollie, frowning. Even before words came out of his mouth, Ollie knew what he was going to say. He just knew. He tried to forestall the declaration, even tried to stand, but the Z-bed defeated him and began to fold, just as in a childhood nightmare.

Tom ignored the rapidly collapsing frame and said tightly, “I’m not living off you, Ollie. I’m never taking a penny from anyone—ever again.” He rose slightly, thumped some mysterious bit of metal on the bed, and Ollie felt it snapping back firm and straight beneath him.

Tom suddenly swore, shoved his tea on the floor, seized Ollie’s and did likewise, and then caught him awkwardly and twisted them around. He kissed Ollie, lips bruising in their intensity while his fingers dug hard into Ollie’s scalp. Ollie suspected this was pushing it with the bed, but went with the flow, allowing Tom to ease him down onto his back with Tom’s hard, heavy body now over him.

It was one of the most delightful sensations Ollie had ever experienced. Having spent almost twenty years fending off such intimacy, coming to dread the moment of attack and the hot, smelly attempts to take him, force him, press him down, persuade him, possess him, he’d somewhat lost faith in ever being able to enjoy it. He’d held onto the faint but sure hope that if only he could find the right person, he would. Tom Collins lying over him, kissing around his face, stroking with intent around his belly and occasionally dipping lower was beyond pleasurable. It seemed a good opportunity to progress his plan to make it permanent then. He murmured into the kissing, “As soon as you are established, I could ease off the writing and finish my PhD. We could leap frog each other…it’s what couples do all the time—support each other.” Yeah, while he quietly used his Coutts card to fund all the little niceties of life. He could always claim he was selling stuff on eBay if Tom ever questioned the expenditure…

Tom straightened. Ollie felt the absence of weight and intensity as if someone had ripped a sheltering blanket away and left him exposed to the elements. “That isn’t going to happen, Ollie.”

“We’ll make it a
loan
and get it all legal…What?”

Tom flicked him a glance then darted his eyes away and, once more, Ollie knew what he was going to say. It occurred to Ollie that it would have been more useful had he learnt to read Tom Collins’s mind a little earlier in their acquaintance. Exactly as Ollie predicted he would, Tom said stiffly, “I meant about the
couple
thing.”

Even knowing it was coming didn’t make that little declaration any easier to hear.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It had gotten a bit embarrassing after Tom’s declaration—Ollie taking immediate offence and trying to leave, Tom following after him, insisting that, yet again, he’d entirely misunderstood what he meant. Just as with the book comment then—
can’t believe you’ve done it
in reality meaning
always knew you would
. That kind of misunderstanding. The one Ollie hadn’t taken any offence at because at that time in their relationship he’d thought they actually had one of those—a relationship—and he’d still quite liked Tom Collins. Now, being pursued through the hideous killing shed—and didn’t killing shed totally add the necessary ambience to this little tableau?—he wasn’t even slightly fond of Tom Collins, and so he was refusing to see that
I don’t want to be a couple with you
could have any other interpretation at all.

The truly humiliating part came when Ollie managed to make it outside. It was now dark and very cold, and he realised he’d forgotten that he had, in fact, arrived with Tom in Tom’s van—or, more to the point, if he wanted to leave, Tom would have to drive him. Or he’d have to walk. That wasn’t entirely ruled out of Ollie’s rapidly considered options. Anything, even turning instantaneously into a bird as he’d once told Tom would be cool, was being considered.

Knowing he had Ollie trapped apparently made Tom calmer, and he was now not holding pathetically to Ollie’s shirtsleeve while trying to prevent him from storming through the maggots and flies. Well, there had been one fly, which the temperature had rendered a bit inert, but in Ollie’s mind there had totally been blood dripping on him from the fleeces. It had been that sort of scene.

He rubbed one hand over his bristly scalp to check for clots as he desperately tried to get connection for his phone so he could call for a taxi. Tom was clearly waiting for Ollie to admit inevitable no-signal defeat and stood with his hands in his pockets, hunched and…shivering…Ollie suddenly realised how icy it was. In that moment, all his adrenaline wicked away like petrol on hot tarmac and he began to shake badly, too.

Tom eased closer, and Ollie didn’t need to be a mind reader to know a hug was coming. He backed off with a warning glare. Tom held his hands out. “Wait h-ere w-hile I g-g-get my keys…pl-pl-ease.”

Ollie nodded, hopping and swinging his arms around his body. He was furious, not stupid, and needed the proffered ride.

Tom reappeared with his jacket and the dog. He volunteered the first to Ollie, which Ollie had to concede was a particularly kind gesture and rather romantic in a way. He took the offering and put it on. Clarity of mind. Besides, he was quite glad Tom was cold—
bastard
.

The dog hopped in beside Tom, and Ollie clambered into the passenger side. At the same time, they reached for the heating dial, and their fingers met. Tom seized Ollie’s hand and held on, and at the risk of having his fingers dislocated if he yanked them away, Ollie let him. Only for that practical reason, he told himself.

“Will you listen to me now?”

“Turn the engine on and maybe I will.” Ollie sank down in the seat and Tom’s jacket, only his nose and eyes appearing above it.

Tom did as requested and when some heat began to emerge from the vents, staring ahead into the darkness, hands gripping the wheel, he said flatly, “I didn’t mean I wasn’t ready for
you
, Ollie. I’ve been obsessed with you since I was twenty-one years old, first posting on promotion to corporal and not knowing my arse from my elbow.”

It was a good opener, Ollie had to concede.

Tom turned to look at him and a small smile crept onto his face. Still huddled as low as he could get into Tom’s
gorgeous
jacket, Ollie asked grumpily, “What?”

Tom shook his head. “Nothing.” He sighed. “Jesus, Ollie.
Couple
. What is it you’re picturing here?”

Ollie emerged from his leather cocoon to reply in exasperation, “I think I could ask you the same thing! What is it you’re picturing?” Then he got it for himself. He recoiled to the far side of the seat, pressed up against the door. “You thought we’d just fuck! We’d be friends who had some fringe benefits!”

“Shut up! Shut up! You make everything so…But do you really want to be like those fuckwits, Luke and Jonas?”

“What? They’re not fuckwits! They’re really nice guys, and they’ve been loyal fucking friends my whole life!”

“What? You are so deluded, Ollie! They’re creepy, and you said—”

“Oh, don’t quote what I said at me. I said some nice things about you once, and they weren’t true either.”

Tom put his head onto the wheel. “I can’t do it. Domestication. And with a…guy. You probably pictured a cottage…with flowers.”

“Oh don’t be so ridiculous. I did not.” Ollie straightened in his seat and made a waving gesture at the track.

Tom got the message and ground the van into first gear. “Your car or straight home?”

“Careful, you might spontaneously combust if you use that word. You better say house. It’s less allegorical.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means fuck off and drive me home.”

Tom retreated into silence as he negotiated the potholes, which had been difficult enough in daylight. Once they were on the road toward Queenstown, he began, “You don’t—”

“I don’t have to. Just shut up and—”

“
No!
”

Ollie jumped. Bartleby leant against him with a groan. Ollie wasn’t sure if it was reassurance or exasperation. Tom apologised in a muttered undertone but added, “You need to shut up for once, Ollie. I’m sick of it…all your clever words and…things. And I wasn’t thinking that at all…about us…you know…”

“Oh, God, don’t tell me you can’t even say the—”

Tom suddenly swerved the van to the side of the road and caught Ollie’s face in his hands, not easy to do around the big dog between them. Ollie actually felt Bartleby’s hot breath on his face as Tom kissed him.

As abruptly as before, Tom pushed him away a tiny fraction and said savagely into his ear, “I can say fuck and I can think fuck, Ollie. I think about nothing else when I’m with you.” Tom pulled away and returned his head to the steering wheel, and Ollie had to strain to hear what he said next. “The fucking will be absolutely fine. What I’m having trouble with is the rest of my entire life! Our lives! Seriously, tell me, is this really so simple a thing for you?” He turned pleading eyes to Ollie. “Is it easy for everyone else? I don’t know how this…home and family thing works! Did you have lessons in that posh bloody school of yours? The army is the only home I’ve ever known! Is that going to be my…my…”

“Template?”

Tom gave him a slightly sour look, and Ollie held out his hands in apology. Tom then sighed and nodded. “Yes. Thank you. Template.” He brightened. “Blueprint! That’s a…a…”

“Synonym?”

Tom frowned. “No, it’s something I use with the chairs. A plan.”

Ollie bit his lip and twisted away in case his smile let Tom off the hook. But seriously, how could you stay angry with someone who was fundamentally so incredibly dumb? And not, of course, about vocabulary. Despite an unused bio on a dating site, Ollie didn’t give a toss about Tom’s literacy. He had enough words going around in his head for ten men. The stupidity about
life
was Tom’s incredibly endearing feature. Ollie had thought he’d come from a dysfunctional family. He’d lived in self-pity about it until that unhappiness had killed one man and almost destroyed him, but compared to Tom Collins, he’d enjoyed an exemplary childhood—aristocratic family, private education at the best schools, foreign holidays, influential and wealthy connections…privilege defined. And if he’d not perhaps witnessed the best
template
for domestic bliss, he’d definitely read about it. He’d read every book ever written, except all the boring ones, but Tom had read, with difficulty, Oliver Fitzroy Does It Again and again and again…