“We try,” Sheila said. “We deliver to the Kingsbury complex too, and the No Fear project. We’d do more if we could, but we don’t have the capacity.”
Jamie was impressed by the volume of food the kitchen had turned out anyway. He sealed the last of the stew and dumplings, and then moved on to the apple crumbles Sheila had knocked up while he’d taken care of the huge vat of mashed potato for her. “Who delivers them?”
“Billy, mainly. We’re looking for someone else, though. He’s busy enough with his other work. You junkies keep him on his toes.”
Jamie had wondered if Sheila knew where he’d come from, but her ribbing was dealt with a kind smile, and he felt no shame. “I like Billy. He’s been good to me.”
“He’s a good man, and he should be back here any minute. Can you take these outside for me?”
“Sure.” Jamie picked up the first stacked box of meals. They were heavy, but after weeks of carting books up and down Marc’s steep stairs, he was stronger than he’d ever been.
He carried all the boxes outside. At the end of the fifth trip, Billy arrived and loaded them into his van. “Off on my run, then back to the centre to set up. You coming?”
Jamie glanced at the kitchen. “I might stay and help clear down. I’ll be there for the meeting.”
Billy’s grin was a mile wide. Jamie sneered at him and waved him off, then he retreated inside just as his phone buzzed in his pocket. The text message from Marc caught him off guard. They’d exchanged numbers to coordinate when Jamie would be around to feed the cat. Otherwise, Marc pretty much left him to it on the assumption that Jamie was usually there every day—or night—depending on Marc’s shift pattern. They’d never had cause to contact each other by phone, and Jamie’s heart skipped a beat.
He opened the message with his stomach in his throat. Perhaps this was the hammer he’d been waiting for—Marc coming to his senses and kicking him to the kerb. After all, he’d asked Jamie to fuck his mouth and Jamie hadn’t, and with the upstairs of the house nearly finished—
Marc:Eat, sleep, then eat some more. Can’t wait to see you x
The melodrama evaporated like it had never been there at all. Jamie beamed as his thumbs flew over the screen, tapping out a reply.
Jamie:Hurry home. I’ll be waiting with breakfast x
And what to make? Jamie had cooked for Marc a hundred ways with noodles, even on the days when they ate together at dawn, but his time in the kitchen with Sheila had brought him back to this side of the Atlantic. Perhaps he’d go shopping after the meeting. There was a big supermarket a mile away.Bacon sandwiches?
Fuck yeah.
The rest of the day flew by. Jamie daydreamed through the evening meeting, and then bounced as soon as it was over, promising Billy that he’d check in about the job at Sheila’s kitchen the following day. His gut told him that he’d bite their hands off if they offered it to him, but with his mind filled with Marc, he needed some time to think. If recovery had taught him anything, it was that impulsive decisions rarely worked out.
He walked from the community centre to the giant Sainsbury’s on the roundabout. Marc’s fridge had been pretty bare the last time he’d checked, so he stocked up on eggs, bacon, and sausages. Marc’s neighbour seemed to keep him supplied with bread, but Jamie got some floury baps, just in case.
The bus home dropped him off by his favourite bench. As was his habit, he stopped for a smoke before he went home. It was a cold night, and damp from a day of drizzle, but his giant jacket kept the chill at bay, helped along by a warmth in his belly that made him smile at nothing in particular. Self-loathing and doubt still ruled him, but it had been a good day. A day he was excited to tell Marc about.
After breakfast, of course.
Jamie finished his smoke and walked home. The dust in the flat taunted him like always, but after a quick shower and a load of washing, he abandoned it for the sanctuary of Marc’s house. He fed the cat, then padded upstairs to the final room on the landing. Much of its contents had ended up in the skip Marc had hired, but a walk-in closet full of old bags remained.
Whistling, Jamie sorted through them at a steady clip, eager to get the room cleaned up so he could return to the library and search out the ethnic cookbooks he’d catalogued a few weeks ago. Sheila was a great cook, but her repertoire was limited, and didn’t cater for the large Indian community who needed help as much as the white folk. Jamie had halfway promised her that he’d bring a few ideas to the table, but her kitchen had no woks, and the power of the gas burners was better suited to simmering than stir-frying. Which meant some kind of curry, which beyond chips and curry sauce, Jamie knew nothing about.
With his mind on vats of tikka masala, Jamie didn’t pay much attention to the pile of sports bags when he first came across them. He’d separated out the vintage handbags that could go the local charity shop, but the sports bags had felt full, so he’d set them aside for the end.
Jamie sat on the floor and opened them up. Predictably, they contained old clothes, but these were clearly Marc’s. Jamie folded them carefully, even though he intended to wash them, and turned his attention to the very last bag. It was empty, but the inside pocket was stuffed to bursting. Impatient, Jamie held the bag upside down and shook it. For a moment, nothing happened, and then three boxes of tramadol fell right into his lap.
Twelve
Marc drove home through rush hour, late as always, but night shifts were like that, even when no one died and the day team arrived right on time. Paperwork was a bitch, and he could’ve done without sitting in traffic. His brain was wide-awake, but his body was tired and achy—particularly the parts of it that were no longer there. Irony was a bitch too.
At a green light, Marc drove off, grimacing as a bolt of phantom pain lanced his imaginary leg. It was excruciating, but paled in comparison to when it had set in the previous day—ten minutes after Jamie had finally left the house.
The possibility of the two happenings being connected had tickled his mind all night long. The notion was ridiculous, but Marc turned it over and over just the same. Not that he’d come to any sensible conclusions, and he drove into Matlock Bath certain of only one thing: he couldn’t wait to get home to Jamie.
Marc pulled up at the house with a contradictory lightness he couldn’t describe. The breakfast Jamie had promised called his name, but before that, he needed to hold Jamie in his arms. The twenty-four hours they’d spent in bed together was etched on Marc’s soul, but the cold reality of a painful day alone and then a long night at work had made that blissful time seem like another life. Marc had never been with someone so consuming, and he needed to know it was real.
He wrestled with the front door and kicked it open. The scent of chilli and garlic that typically greeted him whatever time he came home was noticeably absent, but Marc traced his usual route to the kitchen anyway. It was Jamie’s favourite room in the house, and he always holed up there when he’d had enough of the draughty rooms upstairs—pottering at the stove, or sitting at the table making lists of every piece of junk he’d come across that day.
He was never on the couch.