“I knew you wanted me, Beauchamp.”
Beauchamp opened his eyes. He took in the state of Vidal, with his hand still inside Vidal’s boxers and the front of his own trousers in a state that was going to require a great deal of explaining to whichever batman handled his laundry. Then he let out a laugh against Vidal’s mouth.
He eased his hand out of Vidal’s boxers, and he set it instead at the small of his back, respectably over the silk.
“Vidal.”
“Mm?”
“That was —” Beauchamp’s eyes slid sideways to the closed door, then to a point on the carpet between their shoes. “That was conduct unbecoming.”
“No. Resist the urge towards self-flagellation that you are so prone to, Hendrix Riff Beauchamp. You are going to stand here holding me, and you will let us enjoy each other.”
Beauchamp dropped his head and pressed his mouth, briefly, to the top of Vidal’s hair.
“Don’t worry, Beauchamp.” Vidal turned his face up against the warm cotton of Beauchamp’s collar. “James and I have done worse in the throne room at Buckingham Palace.”
Beauchamp’s hand stopped moving against Vidal’s back. For one delicious moment, Vidal had the entire stilled and gobsmacked attention of the Major. Then Beauchamp lifted his head and looked down at him, and Vidal could see him running this new piece of intelligence against three months of prior data.
“Defineworse,” the Major demanded.
Vidal smiled up at him, and did not.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Beauchamp’sflat occupied the second floor of a red-brick mansion block off Marylebone High Street, and Vidal made it three steps past the door before he stopped on the parquet and turned a slow, full circle.
The sofa cushions sat at identical angles. The coffee table held a single coaster, centred, with the remote control aligned to the table’s edge beside it. A lamp stood in each corner above a rug the colour of wet slate, and nothing, not a shoe, or a stray mug, was out of place anywhere in his field of vision.
“This is a lovely flat, Beauchamp.”
“Thank you.”
“It is also deeply disturbing. It looks like the show flat they use to sell the other flats in a high-rise building. Where is your mess? Where are the signs that you are actuallyliving, Beauchamp? Like…a wilting plant, or the mug that you used for this morning’s tea?”
“I take care of my plants, and wash my mugs the moment I’m done with them.” Beauchamp lifted the camel overcoat fromVidal’s shoulders, working it carefully down over the sling. “I like to keep my quarters inspection-ready.”
“Nobody is coming to inspect you, Beauchamp.”
“You’re doing it right now,” Beauchamp pointed out.
“As is my right. I have had sexual contact with you now. The state of the premises where we are likely to have further encounters is very much my concern.” He drew himself up, sling and all.
Beauchamp watched him drift towards the kitchen. “So you’re expecting to have sex in the kitchen, then.”
Vidal laughed at him as though he’d asked whether water was wet. “Of course. The kitchen is for food and fucking, Beauchamp.”
Vidal left him to hang the coat and went, one-armed, to conduct an inspection of his own. A drawer yielded keys, batteries, a wind-up torch, and a folded Ordnance Survey map of the Chilterns. A green mug with a chip on the rim sat alone on the draining board, hand-washed. Then he opened the fridge.
He stood in the cold light of it without speaking. The shelves held stacked containers, each labelled in block capitals with its contents and a date. CHILLI, TUES. CHICKEN, WEDS. There were six eggs, a block of butter, a bag of spinach, and, on the middle shelf, a plastic packet of wafer-thin ham.
He drew the packet out and turned, holding it at arm’s length.
“What is this?”
“Ham.”
“This is not ham, Beauchamp. Jamón is ham. Jamón is a leg that has hung in a cellar for three years, to give it time to contemplate its journey. This is compressed offcuts of pork that is eighty per cent water. The pig has died fornothing.”
