Page 3 of Putting Down Roots

“Did you know that different coloured tulips have different meanings? Take the yellow ones there—they represent cheerfulness, happiness, and hope.”

“You obviously know your flowers Mr . . . “

“Blake, Jackson Blake. I’m a gardener. Flowers are about all I do know.”

“Welcome to Larchdown. I’m Ben, Ben McCullen. If you’re around tomorrow, come earlier and I’ll have a greater selection for you.” I know he’s referring to the meagre offerings, so I smile. It’s okay.

“Hold on.” He disappears through a doorway behind him that’s hung with an old-fashioned plastic strip curtain, and comes backwith a small cardboard box—the type that would hold a single serving of cake. He holds it out.

“These are for tomorrow’s stock but, well, I think you need it today. On the house.”

I take the box and open it up. Sitting inside is a cupcake. It’s topped with a swirl of purple frosting and rainbow sprinkles—Goddamn rainbow sprinkles.A decade of conditioning bubbles up. A decade of being around blokes who describe themselves as men’s men—whatever that means—though it usually amounts to drinking a lot of beer, behaving in embarrassingly laddish ways and certainly not eating purple cupcakes. A lifetime of being bullied threatens to spill over, and I begin to respond in the way I’ve become used to —which might have been something along the lines of,“A purple rainbow sprinkle cake? Do you think I’m some kind of poof?”

But when I look up at his earnest, kind face, the words die on my lips.I don’t even think that, do I?I’m not some sort of homophobe, though I have certainly hung out in groups who’ve cast slurs at gay people. It’s because I’ve always been scared of the guys—well, my brother in particular. Scared of their taunts and beatings if I showed one iota of weakness. Standing here in this brightly coloured shop, in this wonderfully quaint village, my thoughts feel as shameful and as inappropriate as the devil in a cathedral. The natural friendliness of another man towards me, which wasn’t delivered with the twist of a spiteful joke, floors me. A wave of embarrassment washes over me, and it’s all I can do to stammer out my thanks with what I hope is a passable smile.

It isn’t until later,when I walk down to the river bank, and sit under a willow tree that’s just coming into leaf to eat my sausagerolls and the cupcake, that I wonder if the baker had been flirting with me.

Wow, that surprises me.Since when did I have so much prejudice? Do I really think that all gay guys want to do is to hit on every guy they meet? Shit, I can’t go around thinking things like that. What is this village doing to me?

I have to admit, it was a really delicious cupcake, though.

CHAPTER 2

Luca

It takesseveral seconds before I realise the pounding I can hear isn’t actually my head—though thatisdoing a good job of keeping up—but the door.

I groan and roll off the sofa, shuffling across the room.Had I really fallen asleep on the sofa last night?Opening the door a crack, Anna bursts in.

“Thank god, you’re alright.” She looks genuinely concerned. “I thought you’d done something stupid.”

“Stupid?” I look at the empty bottles on the coffee table. Champagne, which I drank to celebrate the opening of my new exhibition, and vodka, to try to forget that my lover—Claude Daucourt—brought someone else to my opening night. And to try to forget the scene that ensued. It wasn’t a public scene, thank god, but still, I was pretty pissed off. I’d been with Claude on and off for six years, but he had never flaunted any of his other lovers in front of me, and bringing one of them to my opening night had been a step too far.

“He’s an artist too. I thought it might be a good education for him,” Claude had said airily, when I’d cornered and confronted him.

“What else are you educating him in?” I found myself asking, which was stupid.

“You, of all people, should know that.”

“Claude, did you ever think how I’d feel with you bringing him here, tomynight?” I could see by the look on his face that he hadn’t. No, Claude never thought of anyone but himself, for all his supposed benevolence. It was all a selfish desire to use what influence he had to get what he wanted—which was adoration from young men. And didn’t they seem to get younger? Or was I just getting older?

“Don’t forget, I got you to where you are today,” he’d hissed at me. It was true. He was an art reviewer and critic for a major Sunday paper. Gratitude had gone a long way in forgiving him every time I saw him with someone else, but it was an old line he’d used once too often.

“Go to hell,” I’d replied, before stalking off. I don’t remember the rest of the opening night party. I do remember coming back to my apartment and opening the champagne, and the vodka. Unwise, considering the state of my head, but not stupid in the sense that I thought Anna meant.

“I tried to call,” Anna was saying.

“My phone’s off.” Claude and I have been through tiffs before—admittedly, I’ve never told him to go to hell—and usually he’ll get drunk and call me, apologising and begging forgiveness. I always give in, but as I’m still pissed at him, I didn’t want to hear his voice right now. So the phone is off.

“Luca, have you seen the papers?” Anna looks genuinely worried.

“No, I just woke up. Why? What?” Then the cold realisation of her words hits me. The other reason Claude was at my opening night, was that he was reviewing it for the paper. Claude was a popular reviewer. His reviews were pithy and funny, unless you were on the wrong end of them.

He would never . . . would he?

“Take a look.” Anna heads off to the kitchen where I can hear her filling my coffee machine. I reach for my tablet and switch it on.

“Is Luca Winterton a has been in the art world? His latest exhibition certainly shows a lack of imagination trotted out on hackneyed themes.”

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