Work for it, p.9
Work for It, page 9
“Shifty people,” Keynes says seriously, “tend to be unattractive and underwhelming. Tell me, Griffin; am I—?”
“I find this topic dull,” I say, and go back to chopping.
His laughter is low, rich music. When quiet comes again, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable at all.
“So,” he says after a while, “these recipes you devise…”
I grunt, comfortable enough not to bother with words.
“Are they for work?”
I grunt again, mostly to see if it annoys him. But Keynes, by some witchcraft, seems to know the difference between my Yes noise and my No noise.
“Really? All those ridiculous flavours that people lose their heads over—is that you?”
Typically, conversations like this make me feel awkward and embarrassed. But right now, the near-awe in his voice makes me feel slightly… proud? “They’re not ridiculous,” I mutter, my cheeks warm.
“Good Lord.” The words are faint. “I do hope you’re paid a mint for that.” He sounds sceptical about whether I am. Probably because he’s standing in my house right now, and it’s—well. This place, old and crumbly as it is, has always been the family home.
Not that there’s any family left bar me. Not that it feels like home without my mother in it.
Her ashes don’t count.
I grunt in response to his question, a No noise, just to test if he can really tell the difference or if last time was luck.
Apparently, he can tell. “Really, Griffin,” he sighs, putting down his knife with a despairing clatter. “Please don’t tell me you do it for free.”
I shrug.
“I knew it. You’re gleefully handing out valuable intellectual property. What on earth am I going to do with you?”
I don’t even know what the fuck that means, so I just say, “It’s fun.”
“So is eviscerating people, but if I were asked to draw up a deliciously cruel contract, I’d still charge.”
I blink at him. “Does that mean you’re a lawyer?”
He waves a hand over his body. “Attractive, intelligent, too talkative by half and generally in control of any situation. Of course I’m a lawyer.” He arches a brow like he’s daring me to argue. It’s painfully fucking hot.
Down, Griff. Chop your bloody ginger.
I obey my own common sense and say, “Thought you were a writer.”
“If you think it isn’t reasonable to be both, you don’t know much about royalty percentages.”
“If you’re trying to tell me you’re hard up,” I snort, “I don’t believe you.”
“Are you changing the subject?”
Yes, but so is he. I’m clearly soft as shite, because I sigh and let him. “It doesn’t matter. The recipes, I mean.”
“Your mind, your work, your skill—don’t matter?”
“I… what?”
Keynes’s expression is severe, not in an insulting way but in a scolding parent kind of way. “That’s what you just said to me, Griff. And, since you’re strangely kind to me, I feel compelled to show you the same courtesy and point out that that’s bullshit.”
I don’t know how to answer that. I couldn’t manage even if you put a gun to my head, so I stare down at the scarred counter while his surprisingly gentle words tear up my mind like a tornado.
He must take pity on me, because he shakes his head and looks absently out of the window. “It’s late, isn’t it?”
“Are you leaving?” I sound like a disappointed kid.
I don’t think he notices, though, because he asks stiffly, “Do you want me to?” Then, while I’m thinking about how to say Hell no without sounding like an obsessive serial killer, he clips out: “Yes. Yes, you must be tired.”
I’m not. He’s here. How could I be tired? But I don’t know how to say that, so I blurt, “Why were you out so late, anyway?”
For a moment, I think he’ll toss some meaningless answer at me and disappear. The idea of this strange night ending so abruptly squeezes something in my gut, and I make a decision—I don’t want him to leave. He doesn’t want to leave. If he tries, I’ll convince him otherwise.
But in the end, I don’t have to. He picks up his knife and faces the counter again, and the knot in my chest loosens as he goes back to mincing ginger. “I couldn’t sleep.” The words are tight, reluctant. “You?”
I’m pretty sure if I ask why he couldn’t sleep, he might ‘accidentally’ stab me in the shoulder. So, I move on. “I was on my way home.”
“From where?” It’s sharp. Demanding. He clears his throat, and for a moment he sounds almost as awkward as me. “I mean… what is there to do in this place, so late?”
“I was with Rebecca.” And her fella, Lewis, but for some reason I don’t say that part.
“Oh. You two are close.” Keynes sounds like he’s talking to a pair of flies stuck together as they fuck. I’m not looking at him, but I imagine his lip curling with a hint of superior disgust. That’s the sort of thing he does, when something bothers him.
“Yeah,” I agree, “we are.” There’s a tense, impatient pause, like he’s waiting for me to say more. I don’t.
“You are gay, aren’t you?” he asks suddenly, sounding vaguely irritated.
I find myself biting back a smile. “No.”
“Ah.” A short little sound, but it’s bursting with… I don’t know. Would it be sheer fantasy to call his flat, metallic tone disappointment?
I try and fail to slow down my heart, to snuff out the sparks glittering in my blood. “I do like men.” Just in case he thinks I’m the type to want a guy in a dark alley and blank him the next day.
“Oh.” Now I’m imagining I hear relief. “Are you bisexual?”
Hands, ginger, gleaming blade. “Something like that.”
“Pansexual?”
Looking up, I tell him, “I am who I am. I want who I want. It doesn’t matter what you call it. That’s what my mum taught me.”
When he just nods—no sceptical frown, no argument, no helpful explanation of why I really need to choose a label other than definitely queer—tension I didn’t know I felt drains away. He’s reduced his ginger to snowflakes, so he watches me while I finish mine.
After a moment, he asks almost carefully, “So. What’s it like being just you in a place like this?”
“Fine, or shit. Depends.”
He doesn’t ask what the hell that means, probably because he knows. It’s always fine or shit, isn’t it? And it always depends.
Still, his silence feels spacious, like he’s giving me room to keep going. And, for some reason, I do. “There was a boy at school,” I say. “A year older than me. We had nothing in common, but we were together for a while. He left when he turned eighteen. Since then, five men from Fernley have come to me. I turned one down, because he was married at the time. The rest probably wake up cold in the middle of the night, worried I’ll tell.”
Keynes looks—what’s the word?—appalled. I don’t fully understand why until he murmurs, “I used to be like that.”
“Like—?” But I get it before I finish: he used to be afraid. Somehow, I can’t imagine that.
He must see that I’m about to ask questions, because he speaks abruptly. “Do you ever think of leaving?”
“Leaving?” I echo, my mind still on the hurt in his eyes when he said—
“Fernley. Do you ever think of leaving Fernley?”
“No.” The word is too quick, too hard, too loud. I clear my throat and swallow the acid on my tongue. Then I say slowly, “No. No, I don’t think of leaving. I don’t suit change.” It’s taken me a lifetime to be myself here, in a place I’ve always known. How the fuck am I supposed to do it anywhere else? The thought makes all my old anxieties laugh out loud.
But the idea that I’ll stay here forever makes me freeze up inside, harsh and hurting and empty. Time to think about something else.
I finally finish my ginger, fetch a little plastic bag to put our bounty in, and shove the package into the freezer. Keynes washes his hands, I do the same. I think I’m in some sort of trance, brought on by the late hour and his nearness and the cool, minty scent of him, and maybe by the things we’ve talked about. Maybe by the fact that I’ve talked at all, more than I ever do, and that it didn’t feel like some big effort.
This is how he got me that first night, I remember. I approached him, but I didn’t really want it, not until he flirted the conversation right out of me. How does he do that? I’m standing there, staring at him, wondering about it, when he bursts my bubble.
“You mentioned your mother, before,” he says.
I did, didn’t I? The realisation hits me like a ton of icy bricks, as if an igloo just collapsed on top of me. I didn’t even notice at the time, the words slipping out in a way words never do, not for me—but now I go back mentally, and hear myself say it, and freeze inside. I mentioned her. Out loud.
To him.
Why the fuck did I do that? How did he make me do that? I didn’t want to do that.
He asks me, “Are you close?”
I’m already shutting down. I think he sees it in my face, because his own expression becomes carefully blank and he takes a subtle step back—away from me. I let him. That way, there’s a nice, impersonal distance between us when I tell him what everyone around here already knows. “She’s dead.”
7
Olu
Griff avoids me for the next couple of days—which seems rather unreasonable, but who am I to judge?
Well, I know who I am: I’m the poor, innocent fellow who was simply asking polite questions about another fellow’s mother, and who is now being unfairly punished for it. Not that Griffin’s avoidance is a punishment. I truly could not care less. I barely know the man, and no wonder, if he ices people out the moment they ask after his family. It’s Friday afternoon, now, and he’s still treating me like a pariah. Everywhere I am, he suddenly is not. When I catch sight of him, he turns and goes elsewhere. He’s made himself a permanent dot on my horizon.
This sort of thing is exactly why I shouldn’t bother with people.
His vanishing act captures my attention only because fruit farms aren’t particularly exciting, while his skill is comparatively fascinating. How is a man of such conspicuous size, a man with a gravitational pull like he’s the moon to my exceedingly reluctant tide, so good at disappearing? It’s as if he’s been militarily trained. It’s as if he’s a phantom who can shift through walls. It’s as if he and Rebecca, and maybe several other staff members, are muttering, “The peacock has landed!” into secret earpieces whenever I enter a room. I’d be impressed, if I weren’t so furious with him.
Well, no. Furious is far too strong a word for a man I’ve only known a week. What I’m really furious about is the fact that he’s made me feel guilty—again. It’s an uncomfortable state of mind that I’m strongly allergic to. I wait impatiently for it to pass, and curse his name all the while.
When I finally get within a hundred metres of Griff again, we’re both outside and the air is cool. I’m heading from the admin office, where Emily has been feeding me Godiva chocolates, to the main office where Henry awaits. He wants a meeting, possibly about my brewing non-fiction epic on the fruit farms of Great Britain. Yes, I’m still doing this intrepid writer bit, and no, I’m not going to stop.
But before I can reach Henry, I spy Griff in the grassy courtyard created by the configuration of the office buildings. A smattering of farmer-type people, Pete included, are gathered before him, standing to attention as if he’s their fearless leader. Griff’s hands are folded behind his back, making his shoulders broader, and his booted feet are spread wide, drawing attention to his thighs.
Not my attention, but someone’s, I’m sure.
“Volunteers will be here next week,” he says. “We all know organisation is key. I don’t want any fuck-ups. Listen close.” When he speaks at length like this—well, at length for him—the gentle roll of his accent is easier to hear. It’s soft and soothing, like those country mornings that come with crisp air and a shy, pale sun. Some people are very fond of those mornings, but I believe I’d rather sleep in.
He hasn’t noticed me yet, so I slow my pace and hover, purely for the satisfaction of outwitting him. Well, maybe it’s not just that. Experiencing his presence after such a drought brings its own sort of satisfaction, one I can’t quite name. There’s just something about Griffin Everett, I suppose, that encourages a grudging fascination.
It must be his sparkling wit and warm, open manner.
Or perhaps, a treacherous part of me admits, it’s his way of tucking shirts around injured foxes, stuffing his kitchen with plants, and soothing shaken men with the rhythm of basic tasks as if there’s nothing amiss. Perhaps.
I listen as Griffin outlines next week’s extra responsibilities, clear and concise. He has a calm, commanding manner and a quiet, bone-deep confidence, as if he’s actually a half-decent manager. The way people jump to obey him, I think they agree.
I could hover as the staff disperse, could force Griff to be around me, even though he clearly doesn’t want to—but for some reason, I find myself ducking my head and striding away before he can set eyes on me. I have a meeting to attend. Wouldn’t want to make Henry wait.
Henry’s office, in the same building as Griff’s but less well-used, has a golden plaque on the door that features his name and the fact that he is CEO. Employees probably need the reminder, since Henry seems to work an average of two hours a week, and, judging by the phone conversation floating through his door, suffers from a woeful lack of focus.
“Yes, darling, I will. In about five minutes, actually, so do stop nagging, Katherine. Yes. Mwah, mwah.”
At least he sounds as if he’s joking when he calls his wife a nag.
I wait, rather politely in my opinion—what has come over me lately?—until he finishes his fake kisses and puts down the phone. Then I give a brisk knock before barging in.
Henry’s office is large, cluttered, and filled with photographs of him around Fernley Farm: his toothy grin, his cream-puff face, his tweed and Wellington boots. I falter, astonished, while at least ten Henrys stare down at me from the walls.
Then the man himself booms “Keynes, m’boy!”, dragging my attention to his true face. Lounging behind his massive desk in a plush leather armchair is Lord Henry Breton-Fowler, his visage a little more worn now than in the photographs. I decide—or hope—that his character’s likely matured in line with his appearance, despite the self-centred shrine.
“Henry,” I say, closing the door and taking a seat. “Lovely to see you. You wanted a word?”
“Yes, yes! Just a quick one.” When we were at school, he used to irritate the teachers something awful with his foghorn of a voice. He hasn’t changed. I do believe I feel a slight headache coming on. “About that dinner!” he goes on, speaking in exclamation marks as always. “Friday, m’boy! Kate has it all arranged.”
I blink. Check my mental calendar once, twice, three times. “By Friday, Henry, do you mean today?”
“Oh—yes, yes! We’ll expect you at seven.”
I bet he bloody will. It’s on the tip of my tongue to point out that a man such as I generally has Friday nights written off months in advance, but then I remember that, 1. That is currently a categorical lie and, 2. I’m loitering around Henry’s farm on false pretences for the sake of my, ah, mental health, so I probably shouldn’t aggravate him for my own amusement.
And, speaking of my mental health, or however one wishes to refer to it… unreasonable yet compelling men aside, it strikes me that I’m quite enjoying myself here in Fernley. Bumbling around this idyllic little farm with my journal in hand is wonderfully restful. In fact, it’s been five days since I last wanted to commit murder. I, for one, call that progress, and my mood vastly improves at the realisation.
I find myself smiling at Henry as if we’re true friends rather than men who went to an insular little school together long ago, having been born purely by accident into the same insular little world. “Seven it is, then,” I say. I’m almost relishing the prospect of socialising, of sparkling in a sphere I’ve avoided since Jean-Pierre betrayed me and Lizzie tried to save me. I’m not the same man I used to be, but this I can—and will—do. Just like before. “I look forward to it.”
But a quiet voice in the back of my mind, rough and blunt and slow, asks me if being who I once was is truly the best I can do.
When I stand up, the journal in my satchel feels oddly heavy.
Griff
“Demanding meetings with Henry? I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Griffin,” Rebecca says wickedly, “but I like it.” Her blonde eyebrows waggle. She looks ridiculous. Usually the sight makes me laugh, but I’m all tangled today, so it doesn’t hit me the same.
She seems to sense that, the way we sense most things about each other. “I’ll tell you what I don’t like,” she adds, a little bit breathless. We’re walking to Henry’s office, but I’m being a bastard about it—when I don’t shorten my strides, she has to jog to keep up with me. It’s supposed to be a hint. Surprise, surprise, she’s not taking it. “I don’t like how miserable you’ve been lately,” she finishes.
I’m not miserable. I’m… thinking.
“You’ve got a face like a slapped arse,” she goes on.
I say honestly, “That’s just my face.”
Her cackle scares off the starlings perched cheekily on the admin building’s roof. Good. Those bloody starlings.
“This have anything to do with your golden boy?”
“He’s not my anything, and he’s ten years older than you.”
Her grin widens, and she clicks her tongue. “That’s means he’s ten years older than you!”
“So? No, don’t tell me.” Knowing her, it’ll be something weird. “Don’t tell him, either.”
“Why?” she demands, only she sounds delighted. “Are you worried he won’t like you anymore?”
I stop walking, my messy confusion rocketing into bad mood territory. My voice is low and tight, the headache I’ve had since Wednesday morning a sharp stab at my skull. “Age is the least of my worries when it comes to him, Rebecca. If he doesn’t like me it’ll be because I’m a rude fucker with no social skills who can’t figure out the basics of… of polite death-talk.” I don’t even know what I’m saying right now, so I snap my mouth shut, turn, and start walking again.
