Page 52 of Best Man
“Shut up,” I hiss. “Don’t say that.”
That dark gaze of his sharpens and a look of astonishment comes over his face. “You care about him?”
“Well, of course I do,” I say desperately. “He’s my employee and–”
“Shut up, fuckwit. You actually care about him.” I open my mouth and he makes a sharp gesture with his hand. “Oh my God, this is better than I thought.”
“How is it better?” I say fiercely. “Nothing can come of this.”
“So you admit it?”
I stare at him for what seems like an eternity. Then I give up because Max has always won a stare-out. Even as a teenager he had preternatural patience. “I do care for him,” I say slowly. “I want the best for him, and the best is going to be someone younger and less damaged.” I think of all the things Patrick flung at me in our last major row when I’d come home and found him in bed with his best friend. Hours of shouting. Mainly by him. I remember the criticism and steel myself.
“It’s good you know what’s best for everyone, Zeb,” Max says, popping the last piece of toast in his mouth. “Maybe you should give the Tory party a ring and see if you can sort out Brexit. Or maybe ring up the Kardashians and ask them to stop taking pictures of themselves.”
He sits back, obviously abandoning the argument of how good I am with Jesse. As much as I wanted him to shut up, I now immediately want him to start again and list more reasons why I should be with Jesse.
Instead I make myself relax. “Maybe to the first, but the second is hopeless. Mankind was doomed as soon as the first camera was invented.”
After breakfast, I wander the hotel looking in every room downstairs, but Jesse is nowhere to be found. Max had refused to tell me where he’d gone and said I deserved to wonder because I was a shithead. He’d then informed me that he wasn’t stopping at the hotel any longer because he couldn’t bear to watch me being a twat and stated his intention of buggering off home. I’d given him the two-finger salute, and we’d parted with a fierce hug as normal.
When I come to the function room, I find twenty people standing by easels in front of a huge floral display. I look around but don’t spy Jesse. It doesn’t surprise me, as he’d come out in hives if he had to spend this long standing still. However, I still slump in disappointment.
“What are you doing?”
I spin round when I hear Patrick’s voice and sigh inside. I could do without this. “Just looking,” I say slowly. “You not painting?”
“Not fucking likely. I’d rather eat my own testicle with a rusty spoon.” I shake my head, and he looks around. “Lost your little twink? Need a hand looking for him?”
“I don’t need your hand with anything,” I say evenly. “And please don’t call him that in such a derogatory tone.”
He laughs incredulously. “What the hell is the matter with you? You need to chill out, Zeb. You’ve got even more uptight, if that’s possible, since you’ve been with him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Oh, I’mridiculous,” he says, still giving me that smile that makes him look like a tosser. “I think that title might belong to the middle-aged bloke sticking it to a twenty-something.”
I spin round and something in my face must warn him, because he steps back quickly. “You need to shut the fuck up,” I say quietly but so forcefully that he blanches. “I’m getting very fucking tired of the way you’re talking about Jesse. He’s my guest, and if you don’t like him, then there’s a simple solution. We can both fuck off.”
“You’d go with him? You’re my best man.”
I stare at him. “What bit about him being my date are you getting confused about?”
“Please. He’s like a fucking chip wrapper. Easy to dump.”
I open my mouth to say something I’m pretty sure I won’t regret, and then we both turn as Frances comes up next to us. “What are you two boys talking so intently about?” she asks with an edge to her voice.
I smile innocently at her. “Patrick was just saying how he really wants to do some painting.”
Patrick scowls at me but immediately pastes a smile on his face when she turns to him. “That’s wonderful, darling. I’ll put you next to your mother.”
“Ouch,” I mouth and then smile at both of them. “Well, I must be going,” I say cheerfully and make my escape.
I stop outside the function room. Jesse isn’t coming here, so where to next? A sudden horrible thought occurs to me.Has he already been back and collected his stuff? Maybe he’s caught the train home.
Once that occurs to me, I’m consumed with the desire to know. I bolt up the stairs and let myself into the room. It’s filled with the eerie murky gloom of a summer storm, the light turning everyday objects almost extraordinary. The wind blows outside, flinging the first few drops of rain at the window.
The room is tidy because housekeeping has been in. I rush over to the wardrobe, flinging it open and then subsiding with a sigh of relief when I see his clothes jammed in there in a disorganised mess.
