Page 41 of Pansies

When he was finally conscious, he’d missed breakfast, but he managed to coax a plate of scramblies and too-buttery toast from the landlady. He sat in the dining room, where the wintery sunlight dappled in sharp little diamonds through the bow window, ate his eggs, and read theShields Gazette, and felt strangely peaceful. He usually started his day on a double espresso from Starbucks.

Then he walked—actually walked—fifteen minutes up the road to King Street, just because he could. This was kind of the main shopping area, and it was pretty much the opposite of bustling. Just some pensioners and parents with small children drifting about haphazardly with the litter left by last night’s club-goers.

Before he’d got his car, Alfie and Kev had squandered entire Saturdays on this meagre row of shops. He could rememberwhen the big Woolworths had gone, when the McDonald’s had arrived. There was an HMV now. A Caffè Nero. Another Subway. Totally metropolitan, except at the top of the road, he could see the weird, pepper-pot shape of the old town hall and the flapping green-and-white awnings of the flea market stalls. He popped into the local Greggs and treated himself to an enormous sandwich and an equally disproportionate Belgian bun. Ate them sitting on a bench like an old man, throwing pieces to the pigeons and seagulls.3

Which left him with an entire afternoon and nothing to do, and falling asleep probably wasn’t an option this time. He headed back to his car, climbed in, and stared moodily out of the window. Clouds had furrowed the sky, squeezing out the sun, drenching everything in grey. And his thoughts pretty naturally turned—or returned—to Fen. All the pain Alfie had so heedlessly caused him. He was like an escaped bear rampaging through Fen’s life, wrecking it, over and over again.

He’d been relatively at peace with the whole “can’t change the past” thing. But it was looking a lot like an excuse right now. Just another way for him to avoid having to feel bad about himself. No wonder Fen had considered stuffing his head down the toilet. Which he was broadly glad hadn’t happened, but he did find himself wondering if it had might have helped with this…uncomfortable, unbalanced feeling. With Fen having to give everything—including forgiveness—while Alfie did nothing.

Well, notnothing. There was definitely something Fen wanted from Alfie. But since Alfie wanted it too, and just as much, it didn’t really count. There had to be more he could do. Stuff Fen needed. But he didn’t know him well enough for that.

All he really knew was how he liked to be kissed and held. That he was gay and pretty—was it okay to say Fen was pretty, buthe was, so very pretty—and sharp-tongued and sexy as hell. That he worked in his mum’s flower shop. Drank rosé. Was unexpectedly kind sometimes. Couldn’t deliberately hurt someone, even someone who had deliberately hurt him. Didn’t seem very happy.

Had a broken shower rail in his bathroom?

It wasn’t much. But it was a start. How hard could it be, after all, to fix a shower rail? What had he said with such confidence yesterday? Bit of filler. New bracket. Job done. It wasprobablytrue. And his dad and Billy were handy. So Alfie could very well have a hitherto underexploited genetic predisposition towards DIY. And while he would be doing it for Fen, not Fen’s gratitude, he couldn’t help imagining how it might go. How happy Fen might be. And how good for them both for Alfie to show how far he’d come from the bully Fen remembered.

He zoomed off to raid the nearest B&Q DIY superstore, which actually turned out to be quite fun. He didn’t know where anything was, or what he actually needed to complete the job he had planned, but he still felt like he was doing Approved Man Shopping. There were women there too, of course, but there was an unspoken sense of community from the men who would glance his way or nod at him as he wandered the aisles. And, for once, it didn’t seem to matter that it was other men he wanted to touch and kiss and fall in love with. Because he was buying multi-finish plaster just like the rest of them.

He left with a lot of stuff and a warm glow. And twenty minutes later, he was pushing through the door of Pansies. There was no Fen, just a hulking young woman, dressed entirely in black, standing behind the counter and fiddling dedicatedly with something pointy and awful and wedged into lime-green foam. She peered at him from under ornately drawn-on eyebrows. “Can I help you?”

Alfie tried not to stare. “I was looking for Fen. Who are you?”

“Gothshelley. I work here Friday, Saturday, and Wednesday.”

“Gothshelley? That’s your name?”

A cloud of black taffeta heaved in an upwards direction as she sort of shrugged. “Might as well be. ’S’what everybody calls me.”

“Because you’re a goth?”

She opened her mouth and then closed it again. Thought for a long moment. And then said, “Yes.”

“Didn’t goth go out in the nineties like?”

“So? I’m retro.”4

“And”—Alfie tried very hard to keep the disbelief out of his voice—“you’re a florist?”

There was another endless pause. “No, I’m just standing here in a florist shop. For the lulz.”

Her delivery was so beyond deadpan, it was barely the last archaeological remnants of a pan, and Alfie shuffled his feet sheepishly. “Sorry, I just asked two pointless questions in a row.”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be working on my customer service.” She sighed heavily. “I have issues.” A perfect beat. “With stupid people.”

“Shelley…” Fen’s voice drifted warningly from the back room.

“But it’s not a customer.” Shelley gazed at Alfie, her expression no more encouraging than her voice. “It’s your bloke.”

“He’s not my bloke.” Footsteps sounded against the flagstones, and Fen appeared in the doorway, secateurs in hand, which Alfie thought was a bit of an ominous sign. He lounged against the frame, the pose a little bit studied, a little bit too controlled. Like his mouth. Which was maybe trying not to smile. “Can’t you go a day without seeing me, Alfie Bell?”

Alfie plonked his bags on the floor. “I’ve come to fix your shower rail.”

There was a long silence. Fen blinked. And Alfie suddenly realised it was an expression that had somehow become familiar. Confusion, frustration, weariness, amusement. All the shades of Fen’s blinking, lightly dipped in gold like Fen himself. “Well,” he murmured finally, “that sounds…porny.”

“Er…” It sounded like a flirty opening—so to speak—but Alfie found himself glancing at Gothshelley instead. Talking about gay porn in front of trainee florists probably counted as corrupting Britain’s youth.

“Don’t mind me,” she told him. “I’m sixteen and I read a lot of yaoi.”

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