Page 69 of Pansies

But the truth is, I’m not Alfie Bell’s butterfly. He can’t save me. I’m lost and wingless, wanting only the shelter of his hands.

Love always,

Fen

13

Eventually Alfie ran out of circles he could drive in, so he went back to the B&B. His room smelled a bit like cabbage, which was probably the fault of that damn flower Fen had given him. He thought about throwing it away, but he didn’t…couldn’t. Just left it sitting there stupidly in the plastic cup he’d nicked from the bathroom.

It was late enough to count as early, but he didn’t really want to get into bed and lie there sleepless in the dark. God knew what he’d start thinking.

He paced about his room in the greyish-orange non-dawn. At least in London, he was always too knackered for this kind of emo shit. Work, play, home, not necessarily in that order, cycling endlessly. Reliably. Comfortably. Maybe it was where he belonged.

He tried to imagine Fen there but couldn’t. Couldn’t see Fen in his gleaming, overdesigned apartment. It would be like putting some bright, wild bloom in a hothouse. But then he remembered that Fen was as much a creature of the south as Alfie was. He probably lived in a bohemian warehouse conversion in Shoreditch—one of those places with exposed brickwork and no dividing walls. Hell, he’d probably shared it with his boyfriend, who Alfie immediately pictured as one of thoselacquered London gays who drawled all the time and wore pointy shoes.1

If he kissed Fen in London, would he still taste of the sea?

And why was he even thinking about that? He’d probably never get to kiss Fen again. A realisation that felt like getting his heart ripped out. Alfie slumped into the chintzy chair by the window and, in pure desperation, phoned Greg. Who actually picked up. Because he always did.

“Tell me this is a booty call, Alfredo.”

“Uh, hi. Uh. Not really. Why would you think that?”

“Because why else would you phone your ex-boyfriend at four in the morning?”

“To talk?” Actually, it did seem pretty outlandish. “Shit. Sorry. Did I wake you?”

Greg made a soft, languorous sound like he was stretching. “I haven’t gone to bed yet. I entertained a couple of gentleman callers, courtesy of Grindr, and now I’m watchingDiagnosis: Murder.”

Alfie dragged the curtain out of the way and stared at Ocean Road. There was a choppy lightness at the edge of the distant sky, like someone was pulling open an envelope, but without the glow from the kebab shops and curry houses, it was proper dark down there. And quiet too: no traffic, no birds, just theshush-shushof the sea. It was like he was the last man in the North East. You never felt like that in London. There was always somebody else awake. Something else going on. “You should get a job.”

“Why on earth would I want one of those?”

“Because then you’d lead a normal life, so you wouldn’t be up at four in the morning watching crappy TV.”

“It’s a cult classic, darling. Why don’t you come round? Theintrepid Dr. Sloan is helping a reporter whose dancer partner has been stabbed at a disco.”

Alfie would have loved to. He would have taken a bottle of wine. Maybe more than one. And Greg would have fallen asleep in his lap. “I’m in South Shields.”

“What? Again?”

“Yeah, people can leave London more than once.”

“I know that. Sometimes I go to Bath to stay in my parents’ house. I just meant…why?”

“I wanted to apologise to Fen.”

Greg made a sceptical noise. “And how did that go?”

“Okay, actually. I mean, he didn’t throw plant water at me this time.” Best not mention the toilet thing.

“So now you’re cleansed and redeemed and can move on with your life?”

“I guess I kind of have to.”

“You don’t sound very happy for a man who has achieved catharsis.”

“Well.” Alfie opened his mouth to explain. Failed utterly. And Greg didn’t press him. Just sat with him for a while, in silence, the soft rhythm of his breath down the line providing a faint sense of connection across the miles between them. At last he found some words. But they turned out to be pretty basic. “I asked him out.”

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