Page 19 of The Player

“Well, there’s a reason for that.”

“Pardon?”

She shrugs. “More cake to hand out. Can’t talk.”

I stare after her departing figure but turn as George comes up next to me.

He’s a big handsome man with silver-grey hair and a slightly stooped posture from bending over workbenches all his life. He’s an immensely talented carpenter who’s been with us from the beginning, and Con adores him, saying he couldn’t do without him.

“Happy birthday, lad,” he says, clapping me on the back and nearly slamming me into next week.

“Thank you,” I gasp.

He nods at the cabinet. “Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful. It’ll look wonderful in my kitchen.”

“I’m glad. The lad’s been fretting and worrying over it for ages. It had to be perfect.”

I smile. “Con doesn’t fret over things. He’s the most chilled person around.”

“Ah well, it’s you,” he says casually. “You’re Con’s exception.”

“I am?” I say, startled, my heart pounding. “What do you mean?”

However, I’ve lost his attention. Joan has come back into the room handing out more plates of cake, and as usual, George’s attention is entirely on her.

I shake my head. “Why don’t you ask her out, George?”

He looks back at me. “Two reasons, really, Frankie. One, I’m not thirteen, which I think is the last time I asked anyone out.” I laugh as he says the latter in a disgusted voice.

“What do you old ’uns do, then, George?”

“We court,” he says. “Which brings me to the second reason. What if she says no?”

I smile at him. “I think you’re missing the point.” He looks at me. “What if she says yes?”

“Well, lad, that’s even more terrifying.”

I watch Joan approach Con and Tim with their cake and groan when she offers Tim the chipped plate that we feed Hank Marvin on. On it is the thinnest slice of cake I’ve ever seen. You could feed it through a paper shredder.

“Only a supermodel would be happy with that slice,” I whisper, and George shakes his head.

“She’s a terrifying woman. Brains and courage. It’s an unbeatable combination.”

“Is it?”

“You should know.”

“Why?”

He smiles at me. “Well, you’re the same. Sharp and clever.”

“Thank you, but in the gay world, that doesn’t rank quite as highly as a tight bum and a nice haircut.”

He blinks. “Maybe you should look for someone who appreciates it, then.”

“Easier said than done, George. I am twenty-eight now. That’s approaching dinosaur age in the kingdom of the gay.”

---