Page 8 of For Fake's Sake and other stories

“He made it pretty obvious he thought he’d be doing me a real favour by going to the damn reunion with me. Right now, I’m ready to tell Monty to fuck off too. I don’t need this crap.”

“Maybe you should.” He glares at me. “Stand up to Monty for once in your life.” He throws the TV remote onto the table and storms out of the room.

“What the fuck!” I follow him. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“If this is really that much hassle for you, then don’t do it. Tell Monty what a wanker he is. That you’re not friends. That you have never been friends and never will be.”

“You’re right. I will. I’m meeting him again tomorrow, and I’ll tell him then.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” His annoyance has gone as quickly as it started.

“No, thanks. Like you said, I should stand up to him. I’m twenty-eight years old. I can tell him no.” I’m saying all the right things, but I’m not sure either of us believes it.

“One more thing. And don’t frown at me like that. Give Kit a second chance, but for real, not as a fake boyfriend. You won’t need one after you’ve told Monty. Kit’s a great guy, and he likes you. And if you’re honest, you admit you like him too.”

“Maybe. Don’t get that look on your face. After that night at the bar, I’m not sure about him anymore, but I promise I’ll think about it.”

“Fine, I won’t mention him again. Now time for Queer Eye.”

With that, both of our stroppy moods have gone. I’ve given Jack what he wanted; I always do. Why am I such a pushover?

The next day I’m back in The Olive Branch with Monty the arsehole and tell him I won’t do the speech. He puffs out his chest and turns an ugly shade of puce. Is there a time when puce is not ugly? Despite my refusal, he continues to build up his argument. Why can’t he say, “That’s fine, old boy. We’ll use someone else”? I don’t understand why he wants me to do it. I take a large gulp of my gin and tonic, readying myself to do battle and not let him push me around like he used to do.

“Nonsense, Blinkers. You can’t back out. I won’t have it. You said yes, and I’ve had all the programmes printed.”

“No, you haven’t, Monty. You’re still waiting for more sponsors. It’s not a big deal. You can ask one of your cronies. I’m sure one of your tribe works in the sports department at the BBC now, and didn’t Joss Merrifield climb Mount Everest or something like that? I’m sure they’d love to talk about theirendeavours. I’m a boring old banker. No one will be interested in my job.”

“Yes, Joss is going to be talking too. But the new head asked for you specifically. He wants what he calls a diversity of speakers.” Monty has finally come to the crux of why he wants me.

“You mean, he wants a gay speaker. He has a quota of boxes needing to be ticked. I’m the token gay man. Great, fucking great.” I slam my glass down on the table. “It’s still no.”

“That’s enough. You’ve said you’ll do it, and you will. Stop being a pansy and buck up,” he snaps. It seems the bully in him is rearing its ugly face again.

“Sorry I’m late, babe. Work was a nightmare.” Kit leans over and drops a kiss on my mouth. “Let me grab a drink. Monty, what can I get you? Have you eaten, Ollie?”

I open and close my mouth like a goldfish. What the hell is Kit doing here?

“Good to see you, Kit. You can talk some sense into your man here. I’ll have another glass of Merlot.” Monty smirks at me. If he’s thinking he’s going to get his way, I gladly rob him of that notion.

“Sorry, Kit, but I’m leaving now. I’ve told Monty I’m not doing his speech. You shouldn’t have come all this way. Didn’t Jack say I wasn’t going to do it?”

Monty frowns. He must be wondering what’s going on between us. The closeness we pretended to have last week has gone, and now the air is colder than Siberia in January.

Kit looks at me, pleading with me not to push him away. I hate this. He’s everything I want in a man, but he acted like such a dick last week. As I stand, he lays his hand on my arm and shifts so he is with his back to Monty.

“Please, Ollie, don’t leave yet. I’d like to talk to you, prove to you I’m not a dickhead.” His voice is low, too quiet for Monty to hear.

“Fine, get a drink, and I’ll finish with Monty.” I can’t help but give in to him, although I don’t think this is going to go anywhere. He’s a smarmy one, and I’ve had my fair share of them.

Monty has crossed his arms, following our interaction with interest. My fingers itch to slap the smug look of his face. “Look, Monty, I’m not committing to this. I’m not sure I’m the right person for you.” I hold up my finger to stop him from speaking. “Let me finish. I’ll think about it and get back to you.”

Before he can say anything to berate or bully me, I march away. Kit is still at the bar, and I make my way to him. I catch the end of his sentence.

“…sorry. I’m flattered, but I’m seeing someone.” He gives the barman a sexy grin and picks up his drink, the red wine for Monty, and another glass that probably is for me.

“Hi.” I sidle next to him. “Monty’s finally leaving.” I look over my shoulder, but the arsehole is still sitting there, watching me. “Or maybe not,” I mutter under my breath.

“I’ll take the wine to him,” the barman says. “Your food will be with you soon.”

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