Page 6 of The Player

Tim smiles at me, but there’s nothing warm about this one. It’s cold and dismissive. “So, you know Gene?”

“A little bit,” I say, wondering where the barely veiled antagonism is coming from. “Do you?”

He nods. “I’m his dresser on tour.”

I wonder whether he gave him that ugly hat that makes the rocker look like Worzel Gummidge on a week-long bender, but I refrain from asking. However, I can’t stop my quick look at Con to see if he’s laughing silently along with me the way he usually does in company. My stomach twists when I find him watching Tim instead with the warmth in his eyes that’s usually reserved for me.

Con’s had many men drift through his life over the years, but he doesn’t tend to hold on to them very tightly, and they never last. I wonder with a sick feeling whether Tim will be the exception. I’ve become used to it being just me and Con.

Con pats Tim on his shoulder, and it’s strangely startling. I’m more used to seeing his hands move quickly over a guitar than a man, the long fingers tracing invisible patterns on the wood with his tattoos bright on his hands and the dull gleam of his dad’s wedding ring on his thumb.

Tim clears his throat, and I flush as I realise that I’m just standing staring at them and that Con is looking back, a steady note of almost challenge in his eyes. It feels odd, like I’m looking at a stranger with my friend’s face. As if he’s been taken over by the pod people in those old films he loves to watch. Unfortunately, this awkward silence will not be broken by Con eating Tim’s brains, so I hasten into speech.

“So, is that where the two of you met?”

Tim laughs and runs his finger over Con’s hand. “It’s where we met, but I’ve had my eye on him for ages. And this time, he looked back.”

Con shoots him a funny look, and a too-long silence falls that I unfortunately decide to break. “Lovely,” I say faintly with zero enthusiasm in my voice. I notice Mandy watching us as if we’re in an episode ofEmmerdale.

I have zero desire to be the subject of any more gossip in this village. I’ve never managed to live down the time that I locked David out of the cottage after a particularly spectacular row, and he decided to post flowers through the letterbox while naked. People in the village still treat me as if I’m Liam Gallagher. I, therefore, step back, breaking the staring contest that Tim seems to be having with me.

“Well, I’ll let you get on,” I say brightly.

“That would be good,” Tim says, and there’s a steely tone in his voice that tells me he’s not just talking about a workshop tour.

Luckily the moment is broken when there’s a flash of feathers, and Hank Marvin lands on Con’s shoulder. Tim shrieks and jumps back as Hank kneads Con’s shoulder and begins to croon the opening bit of “The Lightning Tree” by The Settlers.

“What thefuck?” Tim breathes.

“I know,” I sigh. “Hank Marvin is deeply in love with Con and for some reason thinks this is their theme tune. I do wish he’d learn another song.”

Con looks up at me, the old familiar laughter lighting his eyes and making my chest feel warm and light again. “What song would you choose, then?”

“I don’t know,” I say, putting one hand on my hip. “What about ‘Birdhouse in your Soul’?”

Con’s roar of laughter fills the room. He’s always liked it when I’m sassy, but a quick look at Tim shows he’s not quite as enamoured.

“How funny,” he sniffs and manoeuvres himself back under Con’s arm. “I suppose you’re old enough to remember that tune.”

Con stiffens. “Tim, that’s rude,” he chides, but I shake my head, staring steadily at Tim. We both have each other’s measure now.

“Not at all,” I say lightly. “I may be the wrong side of twenty, but I still have all my own teeth.” I show them to him in a bright, cold smile.

“You’re twenty-seven,” Con says. “Hardly ancient.”

“Yes, but that’s five hundred in gay years.”

Con chuckles, and irritation floods Tim’s face. Along with the pettiness, it makes him much less attractive, but unfortunately, Con can’t see that.

“Well, I suppose when you dress like that, it’s easy to make a mistake,” he says.

I look down at my outfit and then at his baggy trousers that are riding low, displaying the band of his Andrew Christian underwear. “Do you mean like an adult rather than Justin Bieber?” I say equally sweetly.

Con stirs. “Tim didn’t mean anything by that, Frankie. He’s a costume designer, so fashion is important to him.”

“Of course,” I say, looking Tim up and down. “A good fashion sense is a rare and beautiful thing.”

The silence is broken by Joan walking into the room holding two cups of coffee. Hank gives a trill of delight. “Thirty-two stab wounds,” he cries. “And a final hammer blow.”

---