Page 57 of Pansies

“Only a little bit,” Alfie protested. “I’m not on the trading floor or anything. I work with companies and governments and financial sponsors. People like that.”

“Okay, but what do you do with them?”

“Uh, equity and bond issuance, and some risk-management stuff, as well as, y’know, like, initial offerings, follow-on offerings, convertibles and derivatives—” Fen’s mouth had fallen open slightly, his brows stuck in shocked little arches. Alfie sighed. “I make money, Fen. I make a lot of money.”

There was a long silence. Alfie absentmindedly stole a piece of Fen’s paratha and used it to mop up the last of his sauce. It wasn’t until he’d eaten it that he realised what he’d done. “Shit, sorry.”

But the corners of Fen’s mouth kicked up. “Be my guest, mate.”

“Oh man, they hate that down south, have you noticed? They get legit territorial.”7

“Right? It’s like they all think they’re going to get food lurgy if you touch their plate.”

Alfie looked at what was left of his jalfrezi, which was basically nothing. “I should’ve got summin vegetarian.”

Fen waved a dismissive hand and stole a swig of his Cobra instead. And, in that moment, with Fen, in South Shields, in his favourite restaurant in the whole world, Alfie felt so happy and so right that his heart got huge and tight and hot, and he wasn’t sure if he was going to laugh, or cry, or have some kind of weird aneurism. Thankfully he didn’t do any of those things. But the possibility of them left this floatiness behind.

“Do you like it?” Fen was saying. “The…the equity risk derivative…whatever it is you do?”

He shrugged. “I’m good at it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No, but”—Alfie finished the last swallow of his Cobra, tasting Fen—“it’s kind of the answer. It’s…well…it’s hard to describe. I like being good.”8

“But isn’t it a really cutthroat environment?”

“It’s competitive, yeah, but there’s a simple answer to that.”

Fen tilted his head enquiringly.

“Be the best.”

“Arrogant, and yet annoyingly attractive.”

“That’s me.” He grinned.

“Oh, Alfie, why? Why do you do this?”

“I told you—”

“I mean,how. How did you get here? Is this really what happened to you?”

There was something…something in Fen’s tone, or the angle of his head, or curve of his mouth. A kind of hunger, or maybe a kind of despair. Alfie wasn’t sure he liked it. “What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know. Something…else, I think. Something golden and special and magic, just like you.”

Alfie spread his arms across the back of the booth, tryingto pretend he was comfortable. “I dunno. It all seemed pretty obvious. I’ve always been good with numbers. Did maths at uni.” He wanted to add,Got a first, because he had, but he was afraid it would come across as bragging. Well, itwasbragging, but he was desperate to show Fen something impressive. Something he could admire. “And I didn’t really want to stick around here.”

“Because you were gay?”

“I hadn’t figured that out then. Except probably I had.” Alfie tried to laugh. Thumped himself on the chest. “We Bells do things proper, we do. Including denial.”

Fen’s hand did an odd little dance, like maybe it wanted to reach out. But then it didn’t.

“I think,” Alfie went on, “I told myself I wanted to do something with the degree. I mean, what’s the point of having one if you just come back home and be a plumber?”

“You did better than me. I think I lasted a year.”

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