Page 18 of For Real

I’m not sure about the technicalities, but I reckon you could get somebody into some pretty interesting positions. And by “somebody” I mean Laurie. Legs up and wide, arms above his head. Exposed, vulnerable, and a little bit degraded. And so, so hot. And I know exactly how he’d look: frowning and desperate and embarrassed and turned on. And mine. Just like I’d be his for letting me do that to him.

God. What would it be like to have someone trust you and want you that much? To put aside fear and pride and shame and inhibition. All the stuff that’s supposed to be so important. Parts of ourselves we’re supposed to protect and care about.

I sometimes wonder what it means that I want someone to do that for me. But then I think it doesn’t matter, and that it’s just a thing I want. And either everything we want is weird, or nothing is. Unless it’s like…avocado. I seriously don’t get that. The texture makes me gag, and it tastes like you’re chewing the inside of somebody else’s scrotum. Who the fuck would want that?2

After a bit, I slide carefully from his arms and crawl off the edge of the bed. Poor bastard must be beyond knackered, because he doesn’t stir. Just makes this fucking adorable noise, nearly a whimper. It’s probably nothing, but I pretend it’s for me. For the loss of me.

It’s kind of weird to be wandering around his house with my knob flapping in the breeze, so I wrap myself in yesterday’s towel and go down to the kitchen. My clothes have gone a bit fluffy in the dryer, but they’re basically fine, and I pull them on. And then I find myself doing all this weird shit.

I pad around and open all the curtains for him. Pick up the Times from the doormat. There’s no post because it’s Sunday. Then I find myself back in his kitchen, peering into the fridge. It’s well stocked, actually, in this slightly anonymous I get food deliveries way.3

I’m probably supposed to be going away. Slipping off discreetly so he doesn’t have to wake up and freak out about having brought me home and let me stay.

But then I think of him upstairs, so utterly asleep, and the way he held me all night. The way he dried me, so gently and carefully, looking at me like I was precious, and going on about benzy-whatever-it-was. Making me feel all cared for. Well, that and horny. And now I want to do something back.

There’s not much in this world I know for definite I’m awesome at, but breakfast I can do. I think I must’ve had natural skills in that direction, but half a year at Greasy Joe’s has honed me into a bacon-and-eggs samurai.

I know, right? It’s the sort of shit parents dream for their kids. Little Tabitha’s going to be a doctor. Rory’s going to run for government. Crispin is deworming orphans in Somalia. And Toby, well, Toby’s not so bad with a griddle pan.

But, hey, at least I’m good at something. For a while there I genuinely thought I wasn’t. And, anyway, I’ve always wanted to play with an AGA.

I want to show off and do him a full English, but with the stuff he’s got lying around it would be more like three-quarters, and I don’t like doing things half-arsed. So scramblies it is.

I spend a little while like a contestant on Deal or No Deal, opening all the doors of the AGA and peering inside, trying to figure out what the shit is going on in there until I work out which one is probably the roasting oven. I find a grill rack insert, line up some pieces of bacon, and stuff it in there, near the top. Then I find a kind of metal badminton racket that opens and closes, and I guess it’s either for kinky shit beyond my wildest dreams or making toast, so I stick it on the boiling plate to heat.

And then I get performance anxiety because scrambled eggs are like this…art form. They’re the wax-on, wax-off of cooking. Simple on the surface but infinitely complex and diverse. Totally magical.4

It’s got to the point that all the regulars at Joe’s will say, “You know how I like them, Toby,” and the truth is, I do. I’m literally walking around with twenty different variations of scrambled eggs in my head. Bit of a comedown for somebody who was supposed to be a lawyer, but beggars can’t be choosers. And egg maker is way better than beggar, isn’t it?

But the thing is, I don’t know how Laurie would like them. And that’s kind of a problem because I want to make him the best fucking scrambled eggs he’s ever had or even imagined possible. Is he traditional or American style? Big curds or small? Pre-seasoned or post-seasoned? Creamy or buttery?

Jesus. It’s carnage in my brain.

So I go for what I like best. Well, usually when I cook for myself, I just go for quick and dirty, but I make for him what I’d make for me if I wanted to show myself a good time. If that makes sense.

I break the eggs into the frying pan, add some butter and seasoning—he’s got proper sea salt and everything—and give them ten seconds in the roasting oven. Basically, there’s two ways to go from here: stir like crazy or hold off, fingers twitching.

I let my fingers twitch and distract myself by putting the kettle onto the boiling plate. Then I grab the pan and gently fold the eggs in. It’s a bit weird, not having them on a hob where I can keep an eye on them, and I’m nervy it’s all going to go horribly wrong. But then I settle into it. I know it’s just scrambled eggs, not like cordon bleu, but there’s something that feels right to me about cooking. It’s calm and focus at the same time. And you get something real at the end of it, something that can make someone happy.

Next time I check the AGA, the eggs are pretty much done, all gold and velvety. I stir in some crème fraîche and some freshly chopped oregano and pile them onto a plate on top of the crisscross-patterned AGA toast, along with lots of butter and the grilled bacon. And, of course, I steal a little of the leftovers, just to make sure I’m not about to serve him a pile of ming. But, no, it’s fine. It’s good. Creamy, but not too creamy, fluffy and indulgent. See, this is the other thing I like about cooking: you always know when you’ve got it right.

I can’t find anything like a tray, but I manage to make it back upstairs, balancing the paper, the plate, and a cup of tea. He’s still fast asleep, curled around the space where I’d been lying, in the warmth that maybe I’d left. I put everything down on the bedside table and perch next to him. I’ve never tried to wake someone up, like, romantically before. I’ve no idea how.

“Uh…good morning… Hi.”

Yeah, that probably wouldn’t have woken a napping mouse.

I lean in to shake his shoulder, and it feels like a ridiculously intimate way to touch someone when they’re kind of helpless and out of it and you’re awake. “Laurie?”

If I was going for gentle, I fail hard. He jerks from oblivious to frantic in about a nanosecond. And his face is like this magic mirror of responses: surprise, confusion, loss, awareness. There’s even this moment in the middle when he looks happy to see me, but it’s gone as quickly as the rest. Eventually, he’s Laurence Dalziel again, and saying in this dry, resigned way, “Good morning, Toby.”

“Hey.” I grin at him because I’m an idiot. “I made you breakfast.”

First, he’s all bewildered again and then unflatteringly worried. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It doesn’t suck.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” He’s still trying to shake off sleep.

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