“You know what I mean. He doesn’t, you know, have any of those mannerisms. And, apparently, he’s in the building trade.”
“Seriously?” said Leonard, wondering if he’d stepped back in time. “Where the hell is Gareth Thomas when you need him? Is that still how you identify a gay man in this backwater? Jesus, Eric, I’ve worked beside lots of men who are interior designers, some with flamboyant mannerisms, but only a few were gay. Add to that the brickies or roofers I’ve employed, built the size of a Rolls-Royce jet engine, totally straight-acting but openly gay and proud, and you’d frankly give up trying to pigeonhole anyone. I thought those clichés died a death with the last century, but they’re clearly still alive and well in Norwich.”
“Okay, okay. Calm down, Mister Politically-bloody-correct,” said Eric, laughing feebly. Leonard felt rattled but was not in the mood to lecture his cousin. Instead, he suggested they should drink up and go before excusing himself to use the pub's toilet.
When he returned along the corridor, the formidable figure of Lamperton came towards him, his gaze trained on the floor in front of him. As he approached, he raised his head and met Leonard's scrutiny. For a split second, something resembling recognition widened his eyes, but almost immediately the gaze fell back to the carpet. Without slowing his pace, he passed Leonard in silence.
Only Lamperton’s eyes spoke of a troubled life, with shadowed bags beneath them and permanent worry lines carved between his eyebrows. But what Leonard remembered most of all was the colour, an incredible golden-brown hue which complemented his tan skin and dark-red hair.
So Lamperton had turned out gay, too, thought Leonard.Isn’t life full of little ironies?
Chapter Two
Habit
Adrian Lamperton strolled the street towards his flat, a taupe and mandarin backpack dangling from his right shoulder, downcast eyes scouring the pavement. Lenny Day’s face haunted his thoughts. Angry Lenny—the moody junior at Cranmer Secondary—back then already a good-looking boy, had indeed grown into a fine-looking man. He sported a full head of dark hair with a few grey wisps and a matching beard, both well-groomed, which made him even sexier. One of the untouchables, unfortunately. Even if there had been a remote possibility of Lenny being attracted to other men, he was well out of Adrian’s league. Too good-looking, too smart, and more than likely successful bearing in mind how comfortable he seemed in his skin. No, Lenny Day was light-years from anything Adrian had to offer.
High school had been a long time ago. Lenny had been one of the few who hadn’t hero-worshipped Adrian, had openly scowled at him during his early years there, every time they’d passed each other in the school corridor. To this day Adrian had no idea why, which is why he’d avoided his gaze earlier when they walked past each other. Not that Lenny would remember him. Adrian raised his head when the sign for Hope Street came into view and breathed out a chuckle. No hope, more like, he thought, then wondered what had brought Lenny back to town. People who managed to escape from Drayton rarely returned.
Caught on a rogue breeze, odours of fragrant fried food caught his stomach’s attention and had his mouth watering. Turning a corner, he faltered to a stop outside one of Drayton’s two Chinese takeaways, Hong Kong House, and peered inside, relieved to find the waiting area empty. As soon as the door pinged open, a cheeky young Asian face shot up from behind the counter.
“Lemme guess,” said the son of the Malaysian Chinese owner who was far too young to be working there but enjoyed bantering with customers. “Sweet and sour chicken balls in batter, special fried rice and crispy spring rolls?”
Staring at the boy, Adrian wondered if he was becoming predictable, whether he should choose something different. Absently, he walked to the counter, picked up a copy of the laminated menu and scanned both sides. But he already knew he’d order his usual. Uncle Pat, who had taken him in and found him a job after the events he never wanted to remember had gone down, had once called him a ‘creature of habit’. At the time Adrian hadn’t understood the expression, but now he could see how insightful his uncle had been. Putting the menu back down, he nodded to Bernard.
“Thought so. You’re one of our reliables, Mr Ralph,” said the boy, scrawling the order onto a notepad as if he could hear Adrian’s thoughts. Since his first time to the takeaway, the boy had referred to him as Mr Ralph, and he’d never known or asked why. Until one of the young bar staff at the Red Lion had overheard him mentioning the fact and started laughing, told him he was being compared to the lead character in an arcade game called Wreck-It Ralph.
“Hey, why don’t you download our app? If you order online, they remember your past orders, so you just press repeat each time. And we’ll have everything ready for you to pick up. Or we can even deliver straight to your door, save you a trip.”
Adrian rubbed a hand across his mouth to cover his grin. The way the world continuously sought out ways to streamline everything in life and, in doing so, avoid human contact, he’d never have to step outside his front door again. Oddly enough, that simple thought simultaneously warmed and terrified the hell out of him.
“Don’t even know how to operate the camera on my phone.” That wasn’t strictly true, but he enjoyed seeing the look of shocked disgust on the boy’s face. “If I had my way, I’d still be using my old Nokia 3310.”
“They’re back in production, did you know? Nokia’s resurrected them. Sick retro styles in bright colours, but all fitted with modern apps and add-ons. Pretty damn cool, actually.”
Adrian shook his head and breathed out a sigh of exasperation.
“Ha! I bet you still have one of them Sony cassette things—”
“Walkman.”
“—and a crappy old black and white television the size of a packing crate?”
“Just put my order in, please,” said Adrian firmly, while still unable to keep the smirk from his face. Although he didn’t have a Walkman, he did have an old-style colour television. The old boxy type as the boy had correctly guessed, not a modern flatscreen.
“Hello, Mr Lamperton. Don’t worry, love. I’ve already prepared your order,” came the cheerful voice of the boy’s mother, only her mouth and nose appearing in the small kitchen hatch before she issued a scary screech. “Bernard! I told you before. Stop annoying the blinking customers.”
“Yes, Ma,” called the boy, while sharing a conspiratorial grin with Adrian.
Adrian paid up the usual amount, and as he took a seat on one of the chairs dotted around the walls, his mobile phone rang.
“Lamp—”
“It’s Pete,” interrupted the familiar voice of his pal, Pete Ross.
“Hey, mate. What’s up?”
“Job’s off next week.”
