The Bruise_Black Sky (2 page)

He tossed the phone back onto the chair and returned to the kitchen to find a snack for himself. If Nikolas wanted tea, he’d have to shift his lazy butt to find some.

Ben had to concentrate these days to be the boss in this relationship, as it didn’t come naturally to him. Acquiescence was his default setting. But if he acted before thinking, snatched every opportunity to control and corral Nikolas, and tried not to worry about the consequences, he managed to stay ahead of his natural desire to lie back and let Nikolas decide everything. Hard work, but worth it.

He had the advantage that Nikolas was totally confused and off-balance about what he remembered and what he didn’t.

When it suited him, when the timing was just right, Ben planned to recall that he
hadn’t
given Nikolas permission to smoke at all. He wanted to let Nikolas enjoy his nicotine fix for a bit longer so the giving up again was additionally difficult. It was good for Nikolas to be challenged. Character building.

He smirked as he poured himself a nice, strong cup of tea and cut a large slice of cake just for himself, and sat at the kitchen table with Radulf at his feet.

Life was good.

Most satisfactory…

Nikolas Mikkelsen was free to walk any time he wanted. Clearly, he didn’t want to.

He wished he’d thought of this strategy for dealing with Nikolas nine years ago. Or not. It was only fun because Nikolas kicked so hard against the pricks, so to speak.

He saw a stack of outgoing correspondence, much of it also in Russian. One envelope was in English, however, addressed to the Mare and Foal Sanctuary. Not yet sealed. He opened it. Do, then think. It was challenging, but if he didn’t practise, he’d lose the momentum.

He pulled out a cheque for a million pounds in Nikolas’s beautiful, cursive writing.

Ben swallowed deeply, his hand shaking a little.

He put the donation reverently back into the envelope.

He poured another cup of tea, cut a new slice of cake, and took them carefully over the bridge into their bedroom.

Sometimes his decision to entirely corral and control Nikolas was subverted by the fathomless depths of the love he held for him.

§§§

Nikolas discovered they had accepted Emilia’s invitation that evening when he returned to the house from the under-construction cottage in the grounds. He liked visiting the builders, and not for the reason Ben accused him of. Had he been gifted with another life—one that had not seen him incarcerated in a Russian prison when he was seventeen—he would have become an architect or civil engineer. A history that would not have seen him inheriting his grandfather’s billions, either, he supposed. Hedonistic indulgence and studying hard at university didn’t sit too well together, but he did like building things, designing them.
Had
anyone bothered to notice him when he was on the beach with his bucket and spade, they’d have witnessed the great constructions he made out of sand and water, damming, channelling and controlling nature. Changing it to suit how he wanted things to be. Nika had collected shells in his bucket and made pretty patterns out of them. Wuss.
His
castles and fortifications had been superb. Now he had a glass house to his name and soon this cottage built of oak to match the stables and the pavilion alongside the tennis court.

He’d sited it in a clearing in the woods. He understood Babushka instinctively and knew she would want to be surrounded by trees. He’d also countermanded her claim that she only needed two bedrooms—one for herself and one for Emilia during the school holidays—and was having it built with four. He fully expected Ulyana Ivanovna to realise that her lack of English isolated her in her new life and that she would thus want to invite some of her “old fogeys” over to visit. Likewise, Emilia could bring friends from school if she wanted.

Wandering into the kitchen from his successful site visit, he was greeted by the very pleasant sight and smell of Ben cooking.

Six months on, and they were enjoying the fruits of Ben’s determination to master the complexities of their state-of-the-art kitchen. He’d sensibly put the Cordon Bleu book Kate had bought him to one side and started with simple things he could understand. Nikolas didn’t care too much what Ben cooked because he rarely ate more than a mouthful of anything if he could get away with it, but he did like the whole ambience of the thing—just sitting in the kitchen while Ben was working, watching him, sharing a bottle or two of wine, giving Ben the benefit of his wisdom and experience.

There was nothing he knew about food that Ben wanted to hear, especially anything related to the culinary habits of gulag prisoners, but Ben did like him here and used him as a reference, translator, and taster.

About to tell Ben that the thatching on the cottage roof was starting the next day, Nikolas was blindsided, therefore, when Ben announced, as he was grinding some spices, “I’ve booked us flights from Exeter to Inverness next week. Tim and Squeezy’ll be here to look after Radulf. Or he could go to Philipa’s, I suppose.”

“What do—?”

“Babushka’ll need a new dress for the ball, so Philipa’s taking her shopping to Exeter tomorrow—unless you want to take her? Might be easier with the language thing…Can you call her for dinner? We’re ready.”

“But—”

“Oh, course, I suppose we could drive. Then we could take Radulf, and Babushka could see some of the countryside. That might be cool. What do you think?”

“I—”

“Go call her then. She’s watching Strictly—”

“Ben.” Nikolas put his hand over Ben’s to stop the terrible grinding noise. “What are you talking about?”

“Emilia’s end of year next week. We’re going.”

“I—”

“I know.”

“Then why—?”

“Because—”

“Will you fucking let me finish one sentence? Please!”

“Don’t swear at me, Nikolas.”

Nikolas actually felt his jaw drop a little and had to resist the temptation to tap it shut theatrically. He blinked.

Ben grinned and kissed him. “Go fetch Babushka. Please.”

Temporarily flummoxed, but thinking of a suitable reply, Nikolas turned to do as Ben asked and heard a murmured, “We’ll practise our dancing later.”

CHAPTER TWO

Ben actually had no intention of dancing at the ball. That, as far as he was concerned, was for pussies, a judgement he also gave to art, classical music, black and white films, and any books without serial killers, or explosions, or zombies. The only times he’d done so had been at mess functions when he’d been so drunk that all he remembered was an eerie sort of tribalism that stirred the blood, until the rhythmic movements had resembled a battle fought not with weapons, but with bodies and the beat of overloud sound systems. And, of course, men didn’t
cavort publicly
with other men—however gay they were now willing to concede they might be. Which wasn’t all that much, as, although they’d both admitted it, both come out to a room full of men (well, seven, not including Squeezy, who probably hadn’t been listening anyway), that didn’t mean they talked about it or actually wanted to consider it as affecting their day-to-day interactions at all. They were both quite happy to live together and have sex and still not give voice to the G word. So dancing was out of the question.

They hadn’t even held hands in public yet.

However, he had no intention of telling Nikolas that they weren’t going to enjoy the ball.

There was, consequently, a little edge to the atmosphere during the meal. Ben could tell. Nikolas was being overly polite. He was speaking exclusively to Ulyana Ivanovna in Russian, excluding him, whilst at the same time being exceedingly civil to him. It was a neat trick. Nikolas had depths, Ben had to give him that.

Ulyana Ivanovna, of course, was delighted to discover that she didn’t have to travel to her granddaughter’s end of year on her own. She particularly liked the idea of driving, as she told Ben. Ben’s Russian was now quite decent enough for that simple conversation, but once she told him that and he replied, “Good,” she turned back to Nikolas, and the rest of the conversation passed him by. He concentrated on the farfalle with creamy wild mushroom sauce, tapping Nikolas’s plate a little when he realised, as usual, that Nikolas wasn’t eating.

Nikolas picked up his fork and moved the little bows around for a while. Eventually, he muttered in Danish, “It might be awkward, Ben. That’s why I was hesitating about attending.” He took a large swallow of wine, laying down his utensil, unused, once more.

“Awkward? How?”

Nikolas looked a little pained. “For Emilia. If we come to her school. Who will she say we are?”

“Her friends?”

“Don’t be naive, Ben, please. You know what I’m saying.”

Ben regarded him for a moment then nudged him under the table with his foot. Nikolas quirked his lip a fraction at the private communication. “Maybe you should trust Emilia. Let go, have a little faith that you don’t have to decide everything all the time.” There was far more being admitted here than a comment on a thirteen-year-old girl’s ability to understand the nuances of human relations. It was why Ben had softened his remark with the foot touch. Nikolas leant back in his chair, his dark gaze holding Ben for an unusually long time.

His only reply, as he resumed playing with his pasta was, “But we will fly. It is too far to drive.”

§§§

When they arrived, Ben was very glad they’d flown. The school was remote, to say the least—two hundred acres of wooded grounds on the very northwest tip of Scotland, hugging a rugged coastline and private, sandy beaches. They left Ulyana Ivanovna at the hotel to rest and rented a car to drive to the school and pick up Emilia. She had an exeat for the evening so she could have dinner in the hotel with them.

Ben hadn’t been sure what to expect, but was awed into silence by the graceful buildings and the sweeping lawns, bright and welcoming in the June sunshine. It was very far removed from his comprehensive in Yorkshire, which he remembered as barely more than a holding pen for delinquents. He was beginning to regret his hasty decision to accept the invitation, and understood Nikolas’s reticence a little more. Suddenly, a tall, elegant young woman came towards them from the throng of pupils greeting parents.

Emilia stopped in front of them. She was very tall and lean for thirteen. Her hair, which they were used to seeing tumbling and curling and wayward, was done in an elaborate braid and twist. She had freckles across her nose from outdoor summer activities. Ben felt awkward until she turned to him, and, with the tiniest smile, they were back in a hanger in Siberia, making a friendship based on nothing more than a mutual confusion at the hand life had dealt them. She then regarded Nikolas. He was pretending to watch the other parents. Ben knew, though—Nikolas would never leave himself open to rejection, so he shifted emotionally away from any situation that threatened such exposure. Emilia snorted faintly and then flung her arms around him. Despite what Nikolas had once told her, Emilia had worked out for herself that some people need a more potent display of love than they let on.

As they drove to the hotel, she leant through the gap in the front seats, badgering them with questions about Mr Darcy and Radulf and the cottage and all the other concerns in Devon. Her American accent was almost entirely gone, except for a kind of valley-laziness and rise at the end of each sentence, which matched the upper-crust drawl of her schoolfellows. Her Russian, however, was greatly improved, as her best friend at school came from that country, along with almost twenty percent of her house. She’d been working hard at it for Babushka’s sake.

Emilia had recently made it into the school tennis team, never having played before, and was keen to practise with Nikolas over the coming holiday. Ben saw Nikolas repress a small smirk at the thought of having someone else to beat—Ben had yet to take a set off him.

Ben pulled the programme for the next couple of days out of his pocket and handed it back to her, keeping his eyes on the road. “What time do you want us to be at the fair?”

For the first time, looking at the schedule, she sounded hesitant. “Eleven, maybe? I’ll meet you at the front of the dorm?”

Nikolas plucked the sheet from her. “It says silent auction at ten. What’s a silent auction?”

“I…err…I’m not sure. I think it’s…people bid for things?”

“Oh, I had no idea that’s what an auction was. I meant the silent part. Is it all done by mime?”

“It’s secret bids. On paper, not out loud. I think.”

“Why?”

“Because! Anyway, if you come at—”

“What are the prizes—that this has to be done in secret?”

“They’re…you know, the usual things. We’ve donated them.”

“We?”

“Yes! At school. We’ve all donated things.”

“And…?” Nik turned in his seat. She sat back, folding her arms.

“I donated you both.” She flung herself forward. “I’m sorry, but I had to do something! I don’t have spare cars or holidays in chalets in Switzerland to offer!”

Ben was watching her in the mirror. She twitched her nose and pouted. Nikolas did his staying silent trick, and being only thirteen she fell for it. “I had to donate something and lots of girls were donating services and things—half an hour cleaning cars, babysitting, you know!”

Nikolas licked his lips. Ben could have sworn it was a nervous gesture. “You have volunteered us for baby—?”

“Hardly.” She had the upper hand again now and seized the initiative, giving him a derisory glare.

Ben intervened. “Emmy, just tell us, yeah? What have you donated us to do? I don’t mind cleaning a car for half an hour. And Nik can learn how, if he puts his mind to it…”

She straightened her blazer a little, brushing some imaginary fluff off her kilt. “I donated you for a date. Everyone knows who you are…I mean, you’re almost a celebrity…” Nikolas snorted at the
almost
, but then seemed to realise this confession hadn’t included him. She twitched her nose again at his interrogatory eyebrow. “I explained you were a fixer. I’ve donated you to…fix things.”