For the Love of Luke Page 8

Luke put down the spatula and the bowl of prawns. He wiped his hands on the black-and-white striped apron he was wearing and took the gift from Rupert.

  “Oh, that’s real kind,” he said. “But you shouldn’t have.”

  He looked at Rupert for a moment, as though uncertain what to do next. Finally, he leaned forward and kissed Rupert slowly on the lips. Rupert blinked his eyes shut as their lips touched. He wanted to experience nothing but the smell, taste, and touch of the American. Luke bore the scent of shower gel and the comforting taste of home cooking. His lips were full and soft as they pressed gently against Rupert’s. For an instant, they parted slightly, and Rupert allowed his own to open. He let his tongue venture forward. It connected with Luke’s, and their lips opened farther. They explored each other’s mouths, tentatively at first, but with increasing urgency.

  Rupert reached up and placed both hands on the back of Luke’s neck. He held the American’s head firm as he continued his satisfying exploration of Luke’s mouth, of his tongue, of his lips. Luke’s hands pressed on Rupert’s hips and slid down in a slow massage to rest finally on Rupert’s buttocks. Confident he had been given permission to take the American, he reached down to grab the stiffening cock in Luke’s crotch.

  “Hey, hey.” Luke pulled his groin away and raised his hands to push firmly on Rupert’s shoulders to restrain him.

  Rupert breathed deeply and stared at Luke. He was puzzled. The American raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. “We’re not playing a scene in a porn film, Rupert.”

  Luke lowered his eyes to Rupert’s hand as it swung close to his crotch. He looked up and gazed intently into Rupert’s eyes. “I’m a real human being here. We didn’t meet in some dark room at the back of a sex club. If you want that, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong guy.”

  Rupert leaned back against the worktop, hands to either side of him. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and straightened up.

  “I’m sorry,” he began. “It’s just, I thought—”

  Luke rested the flat of his hand on Rupert’s chest and pressed gently.

  “I’m not looking for a quick fuck, Rupert,” he said. “That’s not me. You’re a seriously beautiful man. Certainly on the outside. And I really want to get to know if you’re a beautiful man in here.” He patted Rupert’s chest gently with the palm of his hand. “But it’s better we don’t rush things. Trust me. You need to know—”

  Luke was interrupted by the sound of the smoke alarm’s sudden, insistent beeping. He turned to the skillet on the stove. The garlic and parsley had turned almost black, and smoke poured into the kitchen.

  “Oh shit,” he said and turned to Rupert.

  “Are you okay with charcoal garlic king prawns?”

  THE EVENING was sultry and still once more. Luke had moved the rotary fan from his bedroom and installed it in the dining room. It swept a cooling breeze back and forth in a slow, undulating rhythm. The fan brought regular yet intermittent respite from the stifling heat for the two men who sat at the small dining table. Luke thumbed through the pages of the book Rupert had given him.

  “This is so neat, Rupert,” he said. “This guy Betjeman writes about the British Victorian architecture I love. How did you know? When I need inspiration, I go walk along Cromwell Road to look at the Natural History Museum, or up to the Royal Albert Hall. This guy likes the same stuff I do. And he pokes fun at all the modern shit you guys built in the ’50s and ’60s.”

  Rupert set down his knife and fork and licked his lips appreciatively.

  “Those prawns were a triumph,” he said. “No trace of burnt garlic whatsoever.” He started to clear away the plates. “Yes. Britain’s got a lot to thank Betjeman for. For a start he saved its architectural heritage. After the war they wanted to knock it all down and begin again. They thought everything had to be modern. Betjeman campaigned against the government of the day destroying some of our major architectural treasures. He’s a big hero of mine.”

  “Well, he’s definitely a hero of mine too,” said Luke. He set the book on the table and extended his hand to Rupert. “Gimme those, and I’ll go get the main course. It’s ribs and grits.”

  “Grits?” queried Rupert. “I’ve heard of them but never had them before. What exactly are they?”

  Luke took the empty plates from Rupert and stood up. “Ground corn. And you’re in for a treat. ’Cause I make them taste real good.”

  He disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few moments later with two plates piled high with ribs and grits.

  “There’s more when you’re through with that,” he said and set a plate in front of Rupert.

  “Hey, looks like my diet just flew out the window again,” said Rupert, eyeing the mound of food on his plate. He looked across at Luke, who sat opposite. “I’ll have to live at the gym for the rest of this week now.”

  “What are you complaining about?” asked Luke. “Grits are great for your digestion, low in calories, and rich in vitamins, minerals, and proteins. It’s only when you add cheese and butter and shit they become fattening. And I stripped all the fat I could find off the ribs.” He leaned forward and winked. “I was only thinking of that well-honed body of yours when I put this meal together.”

  Rupert raised his glass of water and saluted Luke. “I applaud the chef for tonight.” He took a drink from his glass and set it down on the table. “So. It’s your turn to tell me about you.” Rupert picked up his fork and looked at Luke. “You had the start of my life story last night. Over to you.”

  “But I’ve already told you,” said Luke. “I can’t remember. I can’t remember any of my life before I came to London.”

  “What is it? Amnesia?”

  “Kind of.”

  “You mean you can’t remember anything? Where were you before London?”

  Luke sighed. He set down the rib he was about to eat and wiped his hands on his napkin. “The first thing I remember about London is waking up in a police cell. I’ve no idea how I got there. Apparently I walked into the police station in Battersea, and told them I didn’t know who I was.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was there for hours.”

  “Shit, Luke,” said Rupert, putting down his fork. “How did you get out?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Luke picked up a rib from his plate and took a large bite. Rupert watched as he slowly chewed and finally swallowed. There was a silence as he stared off into the distance.

  “But you did get out?” asked Rupert when he could wait no longer.

  “Oh yes. The next day. Somebody turned up with my wallet, proof of my identity, and a mobile phone with a few names and numbers in it. I didn’t know any of them. It was freaky.”

  “Who was it?”

  Luke drank from his glass of water. “That’s the weird thing. He didn’t hang around, so I never met him. It seems I’ve been living in Britain for nearly two years, studying art.”

  “But you only moved into this place a few months ago,” said Rupert. “It was while I was in Yemen. I’d always meant to come and say hi. But somehow I didn’t have the time. That was—”

  “Six months ago,” replied Luke. “The afternoon of February twenty-third. A Tuesday. I’ve got all the rental documents to prove it. The problem is, I don’t remember any of it.”

  Rupert gestured to the ceiling with his fork. “What about your paintings up in the studio? When did you start on those?”

  “The composite?” asked Luke. “Oh, pretty well straightaway.”

  “But if you couldn’t remember anything, how did you know you could paint?”

  Luke shrugged. “I just knew. The materials were there the day I arrived in this apartment. I started sketching that evening.”

  Rupert picked up a rib from his plate and began to gnaw at it. “So the amnesia. What can you do about it? Is that why you’re seeing a psychiatrist?”

  Luke’s hands froze, a barbecued rib halfway to his mouth.

  “I’m not,” he sai
d.

  “But I meant to say before,” said Rupert. “I saw you in Harley Street earlier today. You were going into that London Psychiatry place—”

  Luke dropped the rib on his plate with a clatter. “What are you? A spy?” His eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. He stood up and knocked his chair over. “Are you checking up on me?”

  “No, no.” Rupert was shocked by Luke’s sudden change of mood. “It was after I bought you the book. I was walking back to the BBC through Harley Street—”

  Rupert’s phone rang loudly. He pulled it from his pocket and saw there was a video call from Sandra. He looked at Luke.

  “I’m really sorry, it’s someone from the newsroom—”

  Luke was backing away from the table, his eyes wide and staring. He turned, stumbled over his fallen chair, and almost ran down the corridor. A moment later, Rupert heard the front door slam.

  Chapter 11

  RUPERT DROPPED the phone on the table and slumped back in his chair.

  “Are you there? Hello?” Sandra’s voice cut through the stillness of the room. She was shouting above background noise from what sounded like a busy club. Her voice dropped, as though speaking to someone with her.

  “I don’t know. All I can see is the bleedin’ ceilin’. I’ll ’ang up and try again.”

  The phone went dead. Rupert sat up straight in his chair and picked up the phone. A few moments later, it rang again. He answered the call, and after a few seconds, Sandra’s face reappeared on the screen.

  “There you are,” she said. “What ’appened to you? We’re down the RVT. It’s lip-sync night. We thought you two might like a bit of fun. Ty’s goin’ to be struttin’ ’is stuff to Gloria later, so I—”

  “Luke’s cooked supper,” Rupert interrupted. “I told you this afternoon.” He was not in the mood to hear anything about Sandra’s antics at the RVT, or Royal Vauxhall Tavern, the gay club fifteen minutes down the road from his apartment.

  “Yeah, I know. But after you’ve eaten,” replied Sandra. “Anyway. It would be a chance for you to show ’im a few of yer dance moves. Then ’e might think you’re a good mover in—”

  “He’s not here.” Rupert interrupted the torrent of words once more. “He’s gone out.”

  “What? You mean ’e’s gone to get somethin’ for the meal?” asked Sandra. “Look. Why don’t you both come down after you’ve finished eatin’? We’ll ’ave got goin’ by then anyway, so you’ll—”

  “No, Sandra,” Rupert interrupted her a third time. “He did that thing again. When you called just now. The phone seemed to set him off.”

  “Sorry love, it’s deafenin’ in ’ere. I can’t ’ear yer,” said Sandra. “Whatever. Come after you’ve eaten. If you two don’t come, then we’ll just assume yer shaggin’, and we’ll be dead envious.”

  Sandra’s image froze on the screen before it disappeared altogether. Rupert threw the phone on the table and looked around the dining room. He wished he had some idea of where Luke had run off to, or even if he would be coming back tonight. But apart from the psychiatric clinic in Harley Street, he had no idea where Luke would go. The romantic evening had started so promisingly. Now it was a mess, and Rupert was not sure what he felt.

  He stood up. Complicated. It was getting complicated. And Rupert did not do complicated. He picked up the plates with their half-eaten food on them and headed for the kitchen. Rupert made a decision. He would clear away, get his jacket, and go to the Royal Vauxhall Tavern to join Sandra. It was a while since he had seen her hunky housemate, Ty, an American who worked as a flight attendant with Virgin Atlantic. He was a boisterous bear of a man, and Rupert had shared a bed with him once before. Maybe meeting Ty tonight would be compensation for the disastrous evening. If Rupert saw Luke along the way, he was not sure what he would do. He hoped he would not need to make that decision tonight. He remembered watching Ty perform his Gloria Gaynor act at the RVT once before, and it brought the house down. Perhaps it was just what he needed.

  THE ROYAL Vauxhall Tavern was on the corner of a busy road junction on the south side of the River Thames, fifteen minutes’ walk from the apartment. Its proximity had been a deciding factor when Rupert had chosen to move to Vauxhall eighteen months ago. Since his early twenties, he had been a regular at the RVT, London’s oldest gay venue. He loved its relaxed atmosphere and its rich history. In the eighties, the RVT was a regular haunt for Freddie Mercury and many other stars. There was even a story that Freddie Mercury had smuggled Princess Diana into the bar one night, heavily disguised with a beard and Muir cap. But above all, the Royal Vauxhall Tavern was a safe haven for the bizarre in London. People who came to the RVT were not desperate to be fashionable, as in so many other London bars. Instead, they had their own unique style, and at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, no one questioned it.

  As Rupert pulled open one of the anonymous heavy doors that night, a wall of sound assaulted his ears. He pushed his way into the Tavern’s crowded bar. Most people had their backs to him, facing the small stage at the far end. The lip-sync show had already started. A large bear of a man was on stage, belting out his own, very individual lip-sync performance of Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies.” He wore a large silver wig and had glitter liberally sprinkled in his enormous bushy beard. He wore a black Lycra wrestling suit, trimmed with white feathers, black net stockings, and what must have been size 13 black stilettos. At each rendition of the chorus, he turned to an equally bearlike man who stood in the front row. The spectator was wearing leather jeans, a white T-shirt, and a leather waistcoat. The singer bent down and gestured to his ring finger. The grinning bear in the audience blew kisses in return.

  Rupert looked over the heads of the crowd to search for the diminutive Sandra. He turned to scan the few tables ranged around the outer wall of the bar and spotted her in the far corner, sitting with Ty and a girlfriend whose face was vaguely familiar. Sandra waved frantically, and Rupert eased his way through the crowd, away from the stage and toward the table.

  “Where is ’e, then?” shouted Sandra above the thumping beat of Beyoncé. “I’ve been tellin’ these two all about yer latest conquest. You know Ty, dontcha? And you remember Donna? She’s moved to CNN’s London office now.”

  Rupert remembered he had met Donna once before, when Sandra and Ty had given a much-delayed Halloween party in the spring. A very drunken Ty had thrown himself at Rupert for much of the evening, seeking another night of passion. But Rupert was turned off by the state Ty was in and had spent much of the party trying to avoid him. Eventually Ty proposed his undying love to Rupert in front of everyone and then threw up. Donna and Sandra came to Rupert’s rescue, helped him to clean up Ty and put him to bed. Rupert remembered Donna had said she was a graphics designer in another part of the BBC.

  Rupert leaned across the table, and kissed Donna on either cheek. Ty stood, shoved his chair away, and wrapped his bearlike arms around Rupert’s neck.

  “Hello, you gorgeous man,” said Ty. “How can I begin to say sorry for what happened back in April? I’ve been hanging my head in shame ever since.”

  Rupert doubted that very much. Ty was one of life’s rubber balls; he kept bouncing right back. Rupert found it very appealing.

  “Forget it,” he said. “I’m looking forward to hearing you let rip with your Gloria Gaynor later. Where’s your frock?”

  Ty tapped the side of his nose and gave a knowing wink. “A surprise. I’m changing in a while. Can I get you a drink? It’s my round.”

  “Thanks, but I’m off the alcohol tonight. I’ll have a Beck’s Blue, thanks.”

  “Sure,” replied Ty. “Be right back. Then I want to hear all about your new guy.”

  “He’s not ‘my new guy,’” protested Rupert. He looked across at Sandra.

  “What have you been saying?” he asked. Sandra pouted. Rupert turned back to Ty. “It’s all lies you know. Never trust a word out of her mouth.”

  Ty laughed and went off to the bar. Rupert sat down next to Sandra.<
br />
  “Don’t I get a kiss, then, lover boy?” she asked.

  Rupert leaned across and kissed her on either cheek.

  “If you’ve told them anything I told you in confidence,” he said into her ear, “I’ll kill you, Sandra Giles.”

  She put her hand on his thigh and squeezed. “You know I wouldn’t do that, Rupert baby. An’ I know there’s somethin’ wrong tonight. Why don’t you tell me all about it?”

  “Sure. But I’ll be quick before Ty comes back,” replied Rupert into her ear. “First, you’ve got to swear to me you haven’t said anything to him. Or to Donna especially. I don’t want it all over CNN’s newsroom tomorrow.”

  “What do you take me for? I just told them you were fuckin’ the brains out of a gorgeous mystery American.”

  Rupert glared at Sandra furiously.

  “Joke, Rupert,” she said and squeezed his thigh again. “You know I wouldn’t say anything.” She dropped her voice and added, “Especially now that Donna works for the evil empire. Lighten up, will yer?”

  She turned to look at Rupert.

  “So, tell Aunty Sandra what’s ’appened.”

  Rupert briefly described the events of that evening.

  Sandra picked up her glass and drained her drink. “So ’e’s a good kisser,” she said. “It’s a start. What else does ’e do for you?”

  Rupert sighed. He was uncertain how to begin. He had only known Luke a couple of days, but the man had already got to him in a way he had never felt before. Except maybe once. But that was many years ago, when he was younger and more naïve. In the intervening years, Rupert had experienced several relationships, and he liked to think that each one was a development on the previous. That he had learned from his mistakes each time. Except this time, he was not sure what mistake he was making.

  “It’s not like that, Sandra,” he replied. “To be honest, I’m not sure what it’s like. He’s got a great body, he’s a great kisser, and I really wanted to jump into bed with him this evening. But when he stopped me, it was kind of okay. I was happy to go along with it. I really didn’t expect that. But I just feel good in his company.” He sighed. “But when he behaves like this, I don’t know where the hell I am.”