Page 76 of Best Man
He sits back at his desk and gives me a wide smile that seems touched with whimsy. “There is a twenty-year age gap between myself and my wife. Jesse’s mother. Did you know that?” I shake my head and he nods. “I felt very similar to you when I met Gianna. You say how pretty Jesse is. Well, she was the same. Vivid and stunning. Very funny.” He folds his hands. “And I was smaller and older and far too serious.”
“What did you do?” I finally say.
He smiles. “I fought it. I told her very pompously that she deserved better. Broke up with her and set her free.”
“What happened?”
He winks. “I came up against the Bennici determination. Jesse has it too. A very passionate determination. Gianna declared that I was a fool, an idiot. She ranted at me in Italian for a very long time. Luckily, I didn’t know the language.” He smiles. “I still don’t. When she shouts at me, I think it’s probably best not to understand.” I laugh and he waves a hand. “She declared her intention of not being bossed around by her husband. I refrained from telling her that I hadn’t proposed yet, and instead gave in and got down on one knee. We married and all these years later we’re still together.” He looks intently at me. “There is still the age gap between us. That itself will never change.”
“What did change, then?”
He smiles. “I realised that I would rather be with her than be alone. I would rather have her by my side than have years of regrets. I realised that I was being arrogant by forcing her to abide by my concerns, when the only person who had a say in whether she stayed with me was her.”
I sit back in the chair. “I’m still worried,” I say candidly. “I don’t want him to regret being with me.”
“And I like that,” he says firmly. “It indicates a strength of character and a selfless concern for my son’s happiness that I want to see in the person he settles down with.” He pauses. “What I don’t like is cruelty,Zeb. If you don’t want him, set him free, but don’t string him along. He has a good heart and doesn’t deserve that.”
I sit forward. “I won’t. I promise.” I shrug helplessly. “I hate hurting him. I’d rather cut my own arm off.”
“Maybe keep your limbs and use your brain instead,” he advises gently. “My son is impulsive and chaotic at times, Zeb, but he’s the kindest and oldest soul you’ll ever meet.” He smiles at me, and I see an acceptance in his eyes that warms me. “I think you’ll suit him very well. I think you’ll actually suit each other. Relationships are all about finding that moment of balance and equilibrium so you don’t fall over in life. You’ll steady him out, and he’ll set you free to move along without any brakes for a bit.”
“I need to see him,” I say, and I can hear the ache in my voice.
He stands up. “I’ve got to go up to the church because I left my sermon for tomorrow up there. I’ll show you the way.”
We walk out of the study, and I smile at the photos that line the wall. Jesse’s mum is extraordinarily beautiful. She looks a little like Sophia Loren, with jet-black hair, prominent cheekbones and a slightly wild look. It’s easy to see where Jesse’s looks come from. I pause by one photograph. It’s a black and white large photo of a young Jesse. He’s standing in the garden staring at the camera with a huge gappy smile. The charm is evident in every inch of him even then.
His father shakes his head. “He was such a rambunctious boy. Always running and shouting. Never quiet.”
“He’s not changed much,” I say honestly. “He’s still extremely noisy.”
He laughs. “He hated school. Couldn’t abide to be caged up. It still amazes me that he’s endured university, but I suppose that it was easier for him because it was for the job he wanted. He’s the most astute and caring young man. He studies people because he likes to make them happy.”
“He’ll make an excellent social worker.”
He nods and taps Jesse’s face affectionately. “My mother always called him a merry soul. She wasn’t wrong.”
We walk out of the door and blink in the bright sunlight before he guides me to a path leading towards the stone bulk of the church.
“If you don’t mind me saying, I’m a little surprised that we’ve had this conversation so easily,” I say tentatively.
He looks at me and smiles. “Because he’s gay and I’m a vicar?” I nod, and he laughs. It’s Jesse’s laugh. Warm and familiar. “I’m a man of God, Zebadiah, but my God is a loving one. I tell my congregation that when Jesus came to Earth to save mankind, he entered into a great compact with man. He went over everything that was wrong and needed to be fixed.” He smiles at me. “He never mentioned homosexuality once. That’s like Alan Sugar’s lawyers forgetting to mention how much he’s selling a business for. No, we are all created in God’s image, Zeb. My son is as loved by him as anyone else. God doesn’t make mistakes.” He nudges me. “Besides, I wouldn’t like to be him if he snubbed my son, and my wife got hold of him.”
I laugh and follow him through the late evening sunshine. He comes to a stop by the huge curved wooden door. “Well, this is me,” he says lightly. “You’ll find my son round the back. Let him bring you down to the house for supper. Gianna is making her lasagna. It’s not to be missed. Nor is your imminent interrogation by my wife.” He winks. “I’m looking forward to both.”
I laugh. “Thank you. I’d like that very much.”
He vanishes into the church, and I follow the path around the building to a long graveyard. It’s a peaceful spot. Ancient-looking trees hover over the gravestones, some of which lean to one side drunkenly. They’re covered in lichen like a blanket for the dead. The smell of cut grass is heavy on the air.
I spot him immediately. He’s sitting under an old, twisted chestnut tree. He’s shirtless, dressed in faded blue shorts and wearing ratty-looking trainers that are covered in green smears. His T-shirt is a puddle of fabric at his side and sweat glistens on his soft chest hair.
I swallow hard. I’ve never in my life seen a more beautiful man than Jesse. Even though his mouth is drawn tight and a frown plays on that high-boned face, he’s still stunning.
I walk softly across the grass. Someone in a house nearby is playing “Lucky Man” by The Verve and I hope it’s an omen. The beautiful song drifts around us, mingling with the sound of birdsong.
“I like this one,” I say nervously, and his head shoots up. Astonishmentand gladness are there for a brief wonderful moment before he shutters them, and his face becomes a mask.
“Mrs Simpson likes them,” he says coolly. “She went to all the festivals in the nineties and was in love with Richard Ashcroft. She always said that if he’d met her he’d have been writing happy love songs.”
