Fireside Romance Book 1: First Flames (3 page)

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Yes I was perfectly safe. We went to my place. All we did was sit on the sofa and kiss and cuddle. No, Mark—his name was Mark—didn’t hurt me at all. I felt nice and warm and tingly inside.” I closed my eyes to try to recapture some of the pleasant feelings of the previous evening, but I couldn’t. I opened my eyes; the doubt was already beginning to settle in. “It’s a pity I had to pay for the experience though.” I sighed.

Mary gave me a hug.

“Thanks.” I returned her hug. “Even though we agreed on a couple of hours he stayed later, and didn’t want any extra money.”

“That’s, uh, good?”

I wanted to tell her more about Mark. Maybe talking about him would help recapture the good feelings. “I fed him. I don’t think he’d had a decent meal in a couple of days. He was wearing a thin T-shirt on top, so I gave him an old jumper of mine. It was raining, so I also made him take an old raincoat. Honestly, Mary, I don’t know where I got the courage to go out and do it, but I’m really glad I did.” I paused, then said, “But I didn’t give him my recipe for Yorkshire pudding.”

She looked at me strangely for a few seconds. Then the penny must have dropped and she tilted her head back and laughed.

After she quieted, she asked, “Will you see him again?”

I shrugged. Part of me thought I’d pushed my luck the first time and it would be impossible to recapture the magic of that night. Another part of me thought I was weird and sad and creepy to be willing to pay for my happiness. And a third part thought
what the hell. Next time you can afford it, go for it!

“I’m surprised, I really am. But if it makes you happy, then I suppose that’s okay. Simon, you will be careful though, won’t you? If you got hurt, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“I promise I’ll be careful.” Silently I added,
Careful with my heart, too.

We continued with our duties until closing time. Bidding each other goodbye at the main door, we went our separate ways home.

* * * *

I got back to the empty house, looked around and decided I’d have a bite to eat. I wasn’t very hungry, so after heating up a few leftovers and eating them standing up in the kitchen, I went back into the living room and settled in front of the television news. I cuddled up with a big cushion. It wasn’t a patch on snuggling up with Mark, but beggars can’t be choosers, as my Gran would say—though I sincerely doubt she was talking about cushions and male prostitutes when she came up with that particular pearl of wisdom.

My mind drifted to thoughts of Gran. She’s the closest relative I have. I love mum and dad, but I just don’t have a close connection to them. But Gran—my mother’s mother—is so in tune with me, it’s scary at times. I remember coming out to her, trying to explain to the old dear how I felt about other men. The term gay didn’t seem to explain things to her.

“Yes, love, I know you’re happy,” she’d said.

Eventually I’d just said, “Gran, I prefer to sleep with men. I honestly don’t think I’d want to lie down with a woman.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she’d said, waving a hand in dismissal. “I slept with your Auntie Flo for years: Auntie Flo was her sister; there were three brothers and two sisters in Gran’s parents’ three-bedroom house. Bless the old dear: she hadn’t got a clue what I was talking about. As I’d stood there deciding whether to try and explain further, a twinkle had come into her eye. “Don’t look at me like that. I know what a homosexual is. There was a talk on Woman’s Hour on the wireless a couple of years ago about it. I was only pulling your leg. I don’t mind who you love, so long as you truly love them.”

“Aw, thanks, Gran, you’re the best,” I’d said as I gave her a squeeze and a kiss on her cheek.

My attention came back to the TV news: more killing in Northern Ireland. However, my mind soon drifted again.

I couldn’t really remember my grandfather. He’d died when I was about five years old. He’d worked in a coalmine since he was a teenager, and the coal dust had gotten into his lungs. I had vague memories of a white haired old man coughing so hard I didn’t think he’d ever be able to catch his breath. Mercifully he died quietly in his sleep, I think it was a heart attack, not directly related to his lungs. Gran didn’t talk about him much, and I didn’t like dredging up bad memories for her.

I never knew my grandparents on my father’s side. A few years before I was born they died in a car accident while they were driving through Scotland.

The closing credits of the evening news brought me back to the present. Finding nothing else worth watching on the telly, I switched it off and put on a cassette.

I’d grown quite fond of classical music. I was able to borrow tapes from the ‘audio-visual’ section of the library, so I didn’t have to lay out much expenditure on music. The hi-fi was a housewarming present from the folks back home. To the accompaniment of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, I got out a relatively recently published book on the moons of Jupiter that I’d borrowed from the library. I’d thought about getting a telescope, but a good one was out of my price range. Also, living in a town meant there was too much light at night to be able to see much. The book did say a good pair of binoculars was as effective as a reasonable telescope, and much cheaper. I’d have to give that some more thought.

I’d changed tapes a couple of times before my eyes began to droop, so I performed the usual nightly rituals before climbing the wooden hill to Bedfordshire, as Gran used to say to me when I spent the odd weekend at her house when I was little.

Chapter 3

The next couple of weeks passed with mundane regularity. Putting out the dustbin on a Monday, doing several loads of washing on a Saturday. Things at work also carried on at their usual pace. The same faces, the same kinds of enquiries from readers thirsting for knowledge. All was comfortably plodding along in my little boring world. And also unchanging was my lack of a boyfriend.

I craved the physical comfort and security I could only gain from being close to another male. His smell, his warmth, the feel of his body close to mine. I needed all these and so much more.

After several typically uneventful days at the knowledge factory, I decided I needed a second Mark fix. I wasn’t half as nervous this time as I headed towards Gamble Street. I just hoped he’d be there, and not with another customer. I really didn’t want to imagine what he’d be doing with other people. I rounded the corner, and thankfully there he was. My heart lifted.

Jeez,
I thought,
what’s wrong with you? Surely I can’t be developing feelings for this guy.

I was able to damp down these feelings quite easily; I’d had plenty of practice. I played a game with myself, it was a self-defence mechanism. The percentages rule was what I called it. I’d read that approximately ten percent of the male population was gay. I wasn’t too sure how they arrived at this figure, I just accepted it. The way my game worked was to remove those guys who were attached one way or another. Many gay men married women. Then there were those few lucky sods who managed to find a long-term boyfriend. Let’s say attachments ruled out half of the gay population. These men were off limits to me. I absolutely could not be the ‘other man’. I couldn’t live with myself if I was the cause of a relationship breaking up. So by my calculations I was left with five percent. How many of these men were interested in forming a relationship? I had no idea of course. I surmised some men were content being alone. Then I guessed others preferred a long string of one-night stands. No commitment, no strings. The thought of this turned my stomach. I wanted—no needed—someone long term, permanent. Where did this leave the percentage tally? Let’s say two percent.

It really doesn’t matter if all the above figures were wildly inaccurate because the final determining factor was the killer. How many of these remaining men would be interested in someone as plain and uninteresting as me? I picture a decimal point with a frightening number of noughts, and just give up on the idea of ever finding someone.

Mark’s welcoming smile had me instantly snapping out of my morose mathematical maundering. “Simon! Come for a return match, aye?”

I nodded, too embarrassed to speak. Mark gave me a quick hug.

Conversation on the way to my place was much easier this time. I knew he enjoyed movie musicals. We had also touched on the subject of books. Hey, I’m a librarian, what did you expect me to talk about? We both enjoyed biographies of famous people. All of this inconsequential chat lasted until we got to the house. As I shut and locked the door behind us, I asked if I could take his coat…my old coat. I was glad to see he was wearing it. It was now mid September, and the number of cold days was increasing. I’d been anticipating this moment ever since the last time I’d seen Mark, yet now it was here I grew shy. Mark seemed to understand. He sat on the sofa and patted the seat next to him. I smiled and complied with his unspoken request.

Quite quickly our arms were around each other again. I grew a little bolder.

“Can I kiss you?” I was able to ignore my incorrect grammar.

“I’d like that.”

His head moved closer, and we engaged. The feelings that were running through my body were so difficult to describe. A warm, light-headed and all-over tingle.

After a short while I pulled back. “I went shopping the other day and should have a few goodies left. Have you eaten?” I asked, then winced at my stupid comment.

“Thanks, that would be nice,” Mark replied, obviously choosing to go along with my odd behaviour.

We both got up together. I didn’t want to break the body contact completely, so I held his hand and Mark didn’t seem to mind. We went into the kitchen to see what was available. I suggested what British Rail would call an ‘All Day Breakfast’: bacon, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, and fried bread. I also scrambled a few eggs.

We decided to eat at the table in the kitchen. Our knees would often touch as we sat there and, when this happened, we would look up and smile at each other.

I loved watching Mark eat. He could really put away his food. I delighted in the fact I was able to help him in some small way. After all, he was helping me as well, by allowing me to hug and kiss him—although he wasn’t shy about hugging and kissing me back.

After the meal was over, Mark offered to help with the cleaning up.

I refused. “You’re my guest, and guests don’t do the washing up.”

Besides,
I thought to myself,
I’ll do it when you’ve gone, it’ll take my mind off things.

I’d lit the fire in the front room on our arrival, so a nice blaze greeted us when we retired to the sofa. We’d decided to listen to some music. Since I knew Mark liked classical, too, I offered to play the Beethoven Pastoral symphony that I’d still not returned. I was pleased to learn Mark was pretty knowledgeable about the piece.

“‘An early example of programme music,’” he read from the liner notes.

I’d read the little booklet myself earlier, but I liked hearing Mark’s soft, deep voice close by my ear.

“‘The first movement—Pleasant Feelings on Arrival in the Country uses seven distinct motifs in sonata form…’”

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself in the countryside, with Mark. We were in a meadow, he holding me in his arms, both of us soaking up the sunshine. It was heaven.

When the final movement ended I opened my eyes and looked over at the mantle clock. With dismay I saw my time was up. In fact it had ended about ten minutes earlier. I hadn’t heard Mark’s watch alarm go off.

Perhaps he didn’t set it.
Hmm,
I thought.

“Time’s beaten us again,” I said, little above a whisper.

He let out a long breath. “Yes.”

I didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable. I knew his time was valuable to him. If he didn’t work, he didn’t get any money. “I hate that you have to go. But I know you need to.”

He gave me a tight squeeze, then a long kiss on the lips.

We both got up and I led him to the door, all the time holding his hand. I didn’t want to let go, but knew I had to. I gave him back his coat, hugged him again and told him to stay safe.

“I’ll see you again soon,” I told him, opening the door.

“Looking forward to it.” He smiled and turned away.

I closed and locked the door, then went back to the sofa and collapsed on it.

“Oh, God, this is awful. I wish you could have stayed.” The opening of Charles Dickens’
A Tale of Two Cities
came to mind: ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’

I could still smell Mark’s cologne on the cushions.

I stretched out on the couch feeling pretty sorry for myself. Then I gave myself a thorough talking to, got up and went into the kitchen and cleaned up. After this had been done, I felt drained, and so went upstairs to the bathroom and ran a warm bath. I always felt better after a good soak. I’d bought some relaxing bath oils, and I was certainly glad of their calming effects that night.

Thankfully sleep came easily, and I drifted off to thoughts of holding Mark in my arms.

* * * *

Life continued its predictable pattern over the next few months. The weather gradually turned colder and wetter. The shops in the town got out their Christmas decorations, and the Council put up strings of coloured lights between the lampposts all down the main street. They had also coughed up for a large pine tree in the town square, and wrapped lights round it. Fortunately the local vandals didn’t wreck the thing. Although I didn’t much enjoy walking home in the dark, it was nice to see the Christmas lights, and also to look in the shop windows at all the festive displays. The children’s section of the library had the only windows, which faced the high street, so it was up to the staff there to trim up the library’s contribution to the town’s outward show of festive cheer. The staff got the children to make decorations, and along with an aged—but still functional—carved nativity set, this comprised the display.