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“Do you want your Pogues album back now? I’ve listened to it loads.”
I watched him pottering around his room and shook my head. He could have everything I owned if it meant spending more time together. “No, you can keep that too. I’ll know where to find it. Shane MacGowan, neatly snuggled between Barry Manilow and Val Doonican.”
“Bugger off, you!” he protested, “It’s not that bad!”
I gave a mock gasp. “Bloody hell, did I hear Alex Valentine say another rude word? He’ll be shooting up next! Detention for you, young man.”
I dodged as he threw a balled, sweaty rugby sock at me. As I scrabbled to sit up, I might have emitted an embarrassing squeal. “Fuck off Alex, that stinks!”
Grabbing the sock, I hurled it back, smacking him in the face. Next thing I knew, he’d rugby-tackled me back onto the bed, the sock clasped tightly in one of the strong hands pressing on my biceps. He pushed me down into the firm mattress.
“Get off me, you big bully!” Christ, spreadeagled and straddled by Alex Valentine! Out of nothing, my wildest homoerotic fantasies had come to life. Naturally, the struggles were all for show, no way was I going to wriggle out from below him.
“Are you planning on keeping me pinned here all night?”Please say yes, please say yes.
His eyes sparkled with delight. He’d got the upper hand and was loving it. His mouth split into a huge grin as he gripped me even more tightly between his meaty thighs,. “You asked for it, Matt, by taking the piss out of my music collection!”
My chest heaved underneath him. I was breathless for all sorts of reasons. A drop of water slid from his damp fringe, landing wetly on my cheek. With an opened-mouthed laugh, he gave his head a deliberate shake, scattering a further shower of droplets across my face. Wrestling with Phil or Brenner never felt like this. I uttered another embarrassing squawk. Oh, my fucking god. I was ready to explode.
“Do you surrender, or do you want me to stuff this sock in your mouth?”
At that precise moment, the object I wanted him to stuff in my mouth in no way resembled his stinky sock. Rhymed though.
My choices lay between eating the pungent thing or surrendering and him letting me go. The sock reeked; closer to my mouth than it needed to be already. More urgently, if he carried on restraining me in this position, with his groin hovering only centimetres from my erection, chances were odds-on I might come in my pants. Clueless to the fact he was a player in the most sexually charged encounter of my life, Alex continued bearing down.
“I surrender,” I whimpered. “Alex Valentine is the most prolific swearer known to man and Celine Dion is the best singer ever. Now get off!”
Call-me-Richard and Lizzie would have described dinner as a relaxed affair; from my perspective it was like dining with the queen. I couldn’t tell if they had gone to some effort, seeing as Alex had invited a friend over, or whether this was their usual Saturday night grub. If so, I needed an invite every weekend, as the aromas wafting from the oven were almost as good as Alex pinning me down on his bed.
Lizzie carried two heaped plates over to where we salivated at the kitchen table. Feeling terribly mature and sophisticated, I took a sip of iced water from my swanky crystal tumbler. She beamed as she placed one of the plates in front of me.
“Coq au vin.”
Water snorted out of my nose, spraying all down my chin.Cock-oh-what?
“God, sorry.” I cleared my throat a couple of times. Alex gave me a whack on the back. “I’m so sorry. Went down the wrong way.”
I must have misheard. Cock-oh-van? Did she say cock-oh-van? What the fuck? Where I came from, cock-oh-van was what Simon gave Tara after the cinema on a Saturday night, in the back of his Ford Transit. Not dinner. Most definitely not dinner.
“Coq au vin is one of Alex’s favourites,” Lizzie carried on, politely ignoring my mini coughing fit. Yep, she absolutely did say cock. Twice now.
“He’ll be helping himself to yours if you don’t watch out!”
I pinched myself, checking I hadn’t entered a parallel universe. Nope, still sitting here at a lovely oak dining table discussing cock with Alex’s mum.
“The organic butcher down the road bones his meat for me every Friday,” she prattled on, oblivious. “He’s first rate. Leave the mushrooms, Matt, if you don’t like them. I’ve given up trying to coax Alex to eat them.”
As Richard came over with plates for him and his wife, Lizzie busied herself pouring a glass of red wine. I studied the food and breathed a sigh of relief. Chicken stew. Not a wrinkly foreskin in sight. Yep, I could eat that.
Oh my God, this family sat around a table for evening meals, conversing with each other as they polished off home-cooked food! Like families on the telly! And not only for a guest’s benefit, but this was clearly a regular, if not a nightly thing. They were too at ease for it to be all for show. And the chicken stew tasted out of this world. My belly had never had anything like it.
“So, Matt,” call-me-Richard began, turning his benign attention to me. “What does your father do?”
I should have been prepared for this.Drinks eight pints of Stella a night, pisses himself, and then passes out in front ofMatch of the Day was probably not the answer Mr Valentine expected to receive. And if I wanted to be invited back, not the one I would give.Occasionally knocks my mum about?Not the correct response either. Three pairs of warm blue eyes gazed at me expectantly.
“Erm…he works in an office.” I conjured up an image of Phil’s normal, affable dad. “At one of the big factories in town.”
“Ah” Call-me-Richard nodded and speared a mushroom. “Accountancy type of thing, yes?”
