Page 44 of Days You Were Mine

‘I know it’s too soon to say this and you’re too young, but I want us to spend our lives together. Since I’ve met you, I’ve started to want things I’ve never wanted before. Stability. Kids. Not now, but one day. We could buy a house together. Am I saying too much?’

‘I want those things too,’ I tell him, though I feel shy saying it. ‘All of them.’

We walk to the harbour talking of the house we’ll buy one day, a conversation had by lovers everywhere, especially when they come upon the picture-postcard perfection that is Southwold. Our favourite house is painted salmon pink and has turrets either side like a toy palace. We stand outside it fantasising about a future that would allow us to buy it.

The thing is, we need each other equally. I might be adrift without my parents, but Jake has caught hold of me and mapped out my future. And me? I’m on a mission to chase away his darkness, to replace it with warmth and light and love.

At the harbour, we find a fisherman selling crates of mussels from his boat. We pick up brown bread and butter from the high street, Muscadet from the wine merchant, who tells us it is the only thing to drink with seafood.

And perhaps the sea air is pumped full of pheromones, because when we return to the cottage, the boys are up and the charge between them is undeniable. Tom is bare-chested and barefoot, wearing only his faded jeans. It feels strangely intimate seeing his torso, with its pronounced definition that speaks of hours in the gym. Both of them are smiling, wide, ludicrously happy grins.

Rick throws an arm around Tom moments later and says, ‘So. We’re a thing. You probably guessed?’

We’re laughing so hard, all four of us, that it’s a while before Jake is able to say, ‘Well, thank Christ for that. The suspense was killing us.’

There’s a little portable radio in the house that Jake tunes to Radio 1, and the distinctive drumbeat and guitar line of ‘All Tomorrow’s Parties’ kicks in, a Velvet Underground song we have listened to so often we had to replace the record. Jaketurns it up to full volume while Rick uncorks the first bottle of wine, I tip the mussels into a sink of water and Tom sits down at the kitchen table to roll a joint.

We sing the chorus, shouting it, a little delirious, and when the song finishes, Jake grabs me into his arms and kisses me, and Rick and Tom do the same, which makes us laugh even more.

Once we’ve rinsed and de-bearded the mussels, Jake shows me how to cook them, steaming them open in a pot with wine so that the kitchen is scented with hot, sweet alcohol. He adds cream and parsley at the last minute and we eat huge bowls of them, crowding around the little red-topped Formica table, dipping quarters of buttered brown bread into the sauce.

After supper, we decide to walk down to the beach, taking a detour first to show Rick and Tom the pale pink fantasy palace that will one day be ours.

‘See the matching turrets,’ Jake says, assuming the flat, dull monotone of an estate agent. ‘This is rococo architecture at its finest. I think the four of you will be very happy here,’ he adds.

Tom laughs and wraps his arm around Rick and the two of them kiss briefly on the mouth. And at exactly this moment an elderly couple pass on the street, out for a night-time walk with their low-slung dachshund.

‘How disgusting,’ the man says, and his voice is vicious and bitter. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves. This is a respectable town; we don’t want people like you here.’

People like you.Tom and Rick spring apart, and Rick’s face, crestfallen and ashamed, makes my heart ache.

‘Ah, but you see, I think you’re the one who is disgusting,’ Jake says, voice calm but cold as metal. ‘With your judgement, your belief that you have the right to insult a complete stranger.’

Down on the beach, the four of us lying on our backs staring up at the stars, the boys’ good humour is restored. They are holding hands again, I’m happy to see.

Jake picks out the constellations, stargazing another of his childhood pursuits; not just the obvious ones – the Plough, Orion, the Great Bear – but poetical-sounding ones like Ursa Minor and Cassiopeia. I love this name, its romance; a good title for a song, I say. And Jake, who seems to possess a brain stuffed full of extraneous knowledge, tells us where the name came from, a Greek goddess who was extraordinarily vain.

And then he says, apropos of nothing, ‘The day will come when you guys will be able to walk down the street holding hands and kissing and no one will care.’

And, as usual, his generosity of spirit, his bravery, his innate sense of right and wrong breaks me up a bit. I know why I love him, why we all do, me, Rick and Tom. He’s bigger than us, bigger than everyone. And without him we’d be lost.

Now

Luke

The adopted child grows up keeping his innermost feelings secret. A habit may be formed that leads to clandestine behaviour in the adult.

Who Am I? The Adoptee’s Hidden Traumaby Joel Harris

One of the benefits of working in the music industry is that long lunches go with the territory, so there is plenty of time for me to pop back home, make myself a sandwich – smoked salmon and avocado on bread that has seen better days – and then head out to Clapham Common.

I’d expected Alice to be here with Samuel napping on his little sheepskin rug, but instead the house is empty. It’s my house, so why do I creep around it like an intruder, picking up Alice’s things and scrutinising them? A scarf that hangs over the banister, long, thin and made of blue silk patterned with red and cream flowers. I hold it between my fingers; the material is beautifully soft. The instinct to put it up to my face and inhale comes from somewhere deep inside me. I’ve registered her scent – that same sharp, citrusy smell, more aftershave thanperfume – before I drop it back on the banister, riddled with self-mockery. What kind of loser am I?

In the kitchen, I see that Alice has already made something for our supper. Our orange Le Creuset dish sits above a gas ring ready for our arrival. I lift the lid and look inside – beef casserole with squishy-looking root vegetables and the delicious waft of red wine. She made us this casserole once before and it lifts me up to think of her doing it, lovingly preparing a meal for her long-lost son, one she never expected to see (though I suspect she doesn’t romanticise it in quite the same way).

There are fresh flowers on the kitchen table, which means she must have been out to the high street this morning. I picture her and Samuel buying beef from the butcher, carrots from the greengrocer, irises from the florist. I lean over to inhale the subtle sweet smell of the flowers. Hannah loves irises; uncanny how Alice always picks the right flowers, the two of them so easily, so flawlessly, connected. A needlepoint of jealousy right there.

My hand hovers over Alice’s sketchpad on the kitchen table; it will contain drawings of Samuel and I long to see them. Any reason why I shouldn’t? I have a little argument with myself while my hand remains poised, ready to flick the cover open. Most people in their own home, knowing a sketchpad is filled with drawings of their son, would just idly take a look. Wouldn’t they? And yet, somehow, I cannot shake the sense that I am snooping, that looking at Alice’s sketchpad is tantamount to reading someone’s private diary. I won’t allow myself to stoop that low. I’m hoping Alice will soon transfer some of her affections onto me; I’d hate to let her down.

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