Page 2 of Take My Breath Away
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It’s almost ten-thirty, but that’s early for an area like this, and many of the clubs and late night bars are only just beginning to fill up. There are literally dozens of places I could go, but I don’t want to, even though I’m feeling restless and edgy. Perhaps it’s the guy’s question, the one I couldn’t answer.
I huff and jiggle my shoulders in an attempt to dislodge the amorphous dissatisfaction creeping up my spine. I should go home and put this evening behind me, but returning to the empty silence of my huge Highgate house that was built for a sprawling Victorian family and its servants, but which is now home to just me, fills me with gloom.
What the bloody hell’s the matter with me tonight?
It’s another question I can’t answer.
Soho’s streets are teeming, packed with revellers marking the start of the weekend. I’ve no interest in joining them, as I head towards the tube to make the journey home. Turning into a small street, a neon light burns bright. It’s the distraction I need, and seconds later I’m pushing open the door to the café-bar that’s a Soho institution.
Café Alberto, or Bert’s as it’s commonly known to those of us who have been coming there on and off for years, is a long, narrow, austere-looking place. Its walls are covered in black and white photos of either long dead or currently decrepit Italian-American film stars. The seats towards the back have always sat in the perpetual gloom of low wattage wall lights, and tonight is no different.
There are only a few customers dotted around. Much of the café’s business will done later, when Soho’s clubs and bars finally disgorge the drunk and the drugged, the mad, bad, and possibly dangerous to know. For now, those who are here are mostly intent on their phones.
An Americano with an extra shot is my caffeine of choice and, heaped up with three sugars, it’s the fuel that keeps me on the go for much of my working day and beyond.
My greedy eyes examine the contents of the display case, packed full of sugary delights. They’re like crack cocaine for my sweet tooth. Since hitting fifty, three years ago, even the odd pound or two of excess weight seems harder to shift. Not that anybody would know that. It’s not vanity, it’s just a fact. I dither, but decide on just the coffee. There’s a vacant table situated by the window, as I may as well watch the free cabaret that’s taking place on the streets outside, when movement at one of the tucked away, up against the wall tables towards the back of the café catches my eye. It could be anybody, but something makes me take a closer look.
“Perry?”
The shadowy figure, already slumped, slumps further. I take a step closer. Yes, it’s Perry, Elliot’s young Executive Assistant, the man I tease and flirt with unmercifully every time I call into Elliot’s office.
Perry, always smart looking, pristine, buttoned up, the man I refer to as sugar on legs, just to make Elliot squirm. He’s not those things now because he looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. I sniff, and wrinkle my nose. He’s pissed.
I put my coffee down on the table, and pull out the chair opposite him.
“James,” he slurs. Blinking his big brown eyes at me from his gloomy corner, he makes me think of an owl. “Join me for a drink.” He tries to push himself upright, but clumsy and uncoordinated, he gives up and slumps back. “But you’ll have to pay, ‘cause I don’t have any money left. It’s all gone.” He goes to pick up the bottled beer in front of him, but his hands are unsteady and I grab it before he can send it flying across the table. “S’my beer.” He tries to take it back off me, but I’m holding it out of reach. Losing what little balance he has, he falls face first on the table. “Ooh, fuck,” he mumbles.
“I think you might have had a few too many.” A few? He’s completely trashed.
“Not enough. Buy me a drink and I’ll give you a kiss. Reckon you’d like that.” He pulls himself upright, and grins, and blinks his owlish, and very glazed, eyes.
Perry reckons correctly. At any other time, I would like a kiss — but not now, especially not when he’s drunk off his arse. He sways in his seat, trying to sit upright, before he gives up the fight and crumples against the wall.
“Yes, I’ll buy you a drink. A very strong coffee.”
Perry frowns, and belches. “Rather have a beer.”
I ignore him and nip to the counter, keeping an eye on him, although it’s not as if he’s going to be able to make a run for it — I doubt he can even stand up on his own. Moments later I’m armed with a large Americano that’s so strong I swear it’s got muscles.
“Listen to me. You’re going to drink this, and then I’m going to get you home.”
He glares at me, doing his best to look stroppy, but I glare back at him and he drops his gaze and complies, picking up the mug in shaking hands. Not too much of it slops over the side and onto the table, but still, I jump up and drag my chair around so I’m next to him. Placing my hands over his, I guide the mug to his lips to stop him from spilling it down his front. This close, the alcohol fumes are stronger, not just beer but spirits, too.
Perry takes a sip. “Don’t want any more.” He turns his head away, the way babies do when they’ve had enough of whatever slop the parent’s trying to get them to eat.
“Too bad, you’re drinking it. You need to sober up.” It’ll take a lot more than a mug of coffee to achieve that, but it’s a start.
“Don’t tell me what to do. I’m fed up with everybody telling me what to do.”
“I’m not everybody, I’m James. Which means you’re going to do as you’re told.Exactlyas you’re told.”
His head jerks around, and he stares at me with unfocused, saucer eyes. This close, it’s impossible to miss the honeycomb-gold flecking the deep brown, or how thick and dark and long his lashes are, or how pillowy and plump his lips, which are parted and forming anOof surprise. Pretty Perry, so, so pretty, and so young looking — younger than I know him to be — but he’s plastered and stinking of booze, which means this isn’t the time or place to be noticing.
Yet I have noticed him, ever since he started working for Elliot, three or so years ago. Pretty Perry. Teasing him, watching the flush creep up his face, and sometimes even coaxing a shy smile, I’ve enjoyed every minute of it, and I think he has too.
The boy is utterly gorgeous, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, and maybe that’s why I’ve never done more than tease. Yet, he’s not a boy, he’s a man. Twenty-five, twenty-six, maybe, but he’s so fresh faced, it’s easy to forget.
