Stuff (The Bristol Collection) (5 page)

“Christ on a bike, that must have been one creepy attic. Who the hell keeps skeletons in theirs? I think all we had in ours when I was a nipper were a few boxes of Christmas decorations.”

“This was in a stately home. There were generations’ worth of people’s things in there. Old clothes. Suitcases. Photographs.” Photographs of Perry’s ancestors, mainly, but he wasn’t about to reveal that.

“So is that how you stocked your shop? Stuff from some old mansion? What, were they auctioning it off on the cheap, then?”

Perry inclined his head to one side. Let Mas draw whatever conclusions he wanted from that.

“Cool. So it’s all posh stuff you’ve got down there, then. Shame you keep it all in such a mess. You could have a proper vintage boutique if you wanted.”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“You’ve just got to merchandise better. And clear out a load of stuff so people can actually see what you’ve got. Less is more, you know.”

The idea of having a clear-out made Perry’s limbs heavy. “There’s too much. It would take me months.” Although what would happen if his business failed was anyone’s guess. What if it all got chucked into a skip? The very thought gave Perry palpitations.

“Get your friends to help you.”

“Umm, I suppose.” But who exactly would he count as a friend? His regular customers? Denys was pretty friendly, but it wasn’t like they went out for coffee together or anything. There was old Mr. Conrad at the bookshop, who often stopped in to chat to when passing, but he was in his seventies. He could hardly ask him. And as for Cherise—well, she’d definitely tell him where to get off. Besides, they’d probably rush him. Best he handled things at his own, glacial pace.

“I wouldn’t want to put anyone out.”

He was sure his lack of friends must have been painfully obvious, but fortunately Mas had been sidetracked by Albert again. “This thing is amazing, you know. Is this what you do with yourself, then, rather than man your shop? You make creepy sculptures?”

“They’re not all creepy.” His carp certainly wasn’t. “The chickens aren’t.”

Mas’s eyes widened. “You made them too? Wow, you’ve really got a talent, you know that?”

Perry shrugged in response. “It keeps me busy.”

“So you sell many?”

“Not many.”

“Have you got a website or anything?”

“No.”

“A Flickr stream? An Instagram account? A Tumblr? A fucking Facebook page?”

Perry kept shaking his head. He didn’t know what half the words Mas was spouting actually meant, although he was sure he’d heard some of his customers mention them.

“Well then, how do you market them?”

“Market?”

“You know. How do you let the people out there with money to waste know that you’ve got all these kick-arse sculptures looking for new homes?”

Perry gave an apologetic smile and twitched his shoulders. See, this was why he kept people at arm’s length. They wouldn’t let you get away with vagueness. Some of them wouldn’t, anyway.

Mas had his hands on his hips and was staring at Perry like he was a puzzle that needed solving. “Have you ever actually sold one?”

“No.” One-word answers. He could probably do this conversation if Mas stuck to questions that only needed a yes, no or maybe.

“Do you actually want to sell them?”

“Yes.” The best bit was making them, not holding on to them.

“But you don’t actually want to do any marketing.”

“I’m not good at that kind of thing.”

“No shit, Sherlock. You even got a business card?”

“No.”

“And since you don’t appear to be selling much of anything, I don’t suppose you can afford to pay someone else to do the marketing for you.”

“No.” Perry slumped back against the roof.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” Mas brushed up beside him and put an arm round Perry’s shoulders. An arm! The heavy weight was utterly unfamiliar. A little like wearing a scarf, but really not much like it at all. Perry kept still, absorbing the sensation. Did he like it? Maybe. He wasn’t itching for it to end, at any rate. And while Mas was that close, he could enjoy the scent of him too. There was a faint hint of something spicy, with tones of vetivert and musk. How much of that was Mas’s natural smell and how much was cologne he didn’t really want to think about. Anyone who was that fragrant naturally deserved to be admired, but Perry kept his olfactory pleasure to himself. He had a feeling it really wasn’t the done thing to compliment other men on their scent. Not unless you were actively trying to flirt with them. Which he certainly wasn’t.

“Sorry for what?” he eventually asked, when it appeared Mr. Loquacious had said all he was going to say.

“You know, pushing to make you confess your weaknesses. Lewis says I do that a lot. Says my compulsive nosiness is a strategy to draw attention away from my own inadequacies and poor choices. But I reckon that’s a case of the pot calling on the kettle. I mean, he’s just about the worst for it with all this therapy nonsense. Always wanting to know what I’m feeling and so on. Most of the time I tell him I’m feeling up his boyfriend under the table.”

“You have a therapist?”

“Me? Do I seem like I need one? No, wait, don’t answer that. Nah, Lewis is just a friend. Well, sort of a friend. I’m not sure how much he likes me, on account of the thing I used to have with Jasper.”

“Jasper?” Perry was at sea in this conversation, but at least Mas seemed to be able to hold up his side with minimal input from him.

“Jasper’s his boyfriend. They’re all super lovey-dovey right now. It’s kind of cute, but a bit sick-making at times.”

Mas’s expression was at odds with his words, Perry noticed. There was a wistfulness that just didn’t gel with the attitude. Had this Jasper been important to him? He’d never dare pry to find out. Instead he just extricated himself carefully from Mas’s arm and turned to look down at the street corner.

The empty street corner.

“Look, I think your gorilla’s gone.”

“Gone? Did you see which way he went?”

“I just turned around, and he wasn’t there anymore.”

“He’d better not be waiting out of sight.” Mas chewed his lower lip for a moment. “Fuck it. I’ve got to get home at some point. Need a change of clothes for a start. And I’m not going to let that bastard rule my life. Right. Cheers for helping me hide out and everything. It’s been fun.”

“Fun? Erm, yes, of course. A pleasure to meet you.”

Mas stared at Perry’s outstretched hand, his eyes twinkling. Then he grabbed it, kissed the palm lavishly, and scrambled back up over the roof with a “See you soon, Perry the Pirate,” thrown over his shoulder.

Chapter Five

Mas walked up the stairs to his flat, jumping at the creaky boards and shadows. He tutted at himself for being such a scaredy-cat, and for wishing he’d managed to persuade Perry to escort him to his door. But then he’d have looked utterly pathetic, and that would have put the bloke off for good.

Not that it would’ve mattered, really. It wasn’t like they stood a chance together. The nice ones were never interested in a proper relationship with him. Mas sighed and pushed his door open. It jammed on something. He shoved harder, and whatever it was gave way. An envelope, with his name written on it in horribly familiar spikey handwriting. Mr. Patel’s handwriting, to be precise.

“Oh, for the love of cock!” Mas kicked the door shut behind him and put the security chain on for good measure. Then he shoved the kitchen chair under the door handle. It wasn’t like that wobbly piece of junkshop crap would stop Walter pushing his way in if he had a mind to, but it made him feel ever so slightly better. He carried the letter through to his living room and slumped on the threadbare futon. To open or not to open? He contemplated just shoving it under the pile of junk mail and pretending he hadn’t seen it. Nah, it would only get more threatening if he left it unopened. Better to know what he was dealing with.

Two minutes later, Mas was wishing he could just put the letter back in the envelope, reseal it and pretend it had never happened. He read the eviction notice again. Mr. Patel was selling the whole bloody building to a property-development company. No doubt they’d renovate the place and sell the shoebox-size flats to young professionals wanting an affordable city-centre crashpad. Or to men like Grant, who wanted somewhere handy to stash their bits on the side.

Mas didn’t want to move. It wasn’t the nicest flat, admittedly, with its landlord issue scruffy furniture, miniscule 1970s kitchenette and peculiar smell from the drains, but it had been his very first place of his own, and the idea of leaving it behind made his eyes well up. He liked the area too. Felt at home here in Stokes Croft, and it was unlikely he’d be able to afford anywhere else nearby. Not with the way prices were rising all over. And especially not without a job. Maybe he could get Grant to buy the place for him, and wait there dutifully at his beck and call, ready to bend over in lieu of having to pay any rent.

Having a potential sugar daddy should have made him happy—wasn’t it what he’d been saying he wanted for years now?—but for some reason, the thought of living like that made his eyes prickle.

He sniffed and rubbed his eyes furiously with his fists instead. He wasn’t going all weepy. It had just been a shitty day. Things would look better in the morning. He wouldn’t have to sell himself if he didn’t want to. There was always another way.

Unfortunately, by morning the only other plan Mas had managed to scrape together was a very temporary, stop-gap measure and involved asking a favour of the two people in the world he least wanted to piss off. Well, the one person, at any rate. Truth be told, he didn’t mind about pissing off Lewis, but then again, he didn’t want to go making things all awkward for Jasper.

Yet here he was, about to do exactly that.

Mas slurped the last of his tea down before dialling Jasper’s number. As he waited for an answer, he walked around the flat. Aside from the furniture, which his contract said he had to leave behind, how much stuff did he actually have? Not all that much, really. There was a heap of clothes and a few weird bits and pieces he’d just liked the look of—but he reckoned it would only take a couple of car loads to clear out. Shame his little Mazda hadn’t made it through her MOT. Still, it would only be one load if Lewis let him borrow his van.

“Hello?” Jasper sounded wary, but that wasn’t much different from the usual. The man did wary in the same way Mas did breezily confident.

“Hey, Jasper. Got a teeny weeny favour to ask of you and the missus. And you can totally say no if you want to, only you’ll have to live with your conscience forever more. I’m warning you.”

Jasper sighed. “What is it this time?”

“This time?” Mas went for mock outrage. “When was the last time I asked you for a favour, exactly?”

“Try last week, when you absolutely desperately needed a lift back from somewhere down in bloody Wiltshire. At eight in the morning. On a Monday.”

“Oh yeah, thanks for that. I’d have been well late for work if you hadn’t helped out.” The guy he’d gone home with had promised him a lift back into Bristol the next morning, then growled like a bear with a sore head and refused to get out of bed when Mas’s alarm went off.

“I don’t know why you even went that far with a bloke you didn’t know from Adam. It’s not safe, Mas. I’m worried about you. You could get yourself into all kinds of trouble.”

“What’s with the lecture? I think your other half must be rubbing off on you.”

“If you’re trying to make some kind of sex joke there—”

“Whoa! Just a figure of speech. Honest. But is he? You’re sounding kind of out of breath.” Mas had a hard time imagining straitlaced Lewis up to anything as kinky as frotting while Jasper was on the phone, but experience had taught him it was often the quiet ones you had to look out for. Jasper was a case in point. Skinny, geeky, wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but a total demon in the sack.

“I’ve just got back from a run.”

“Yeah, got to work off all that excess sexual tension now you’re settled down into a boring old coupledom, haven’t you? Tell you what, if you and Lewis ever want to spice things up with a third, you’ve only got to say the word.”

“They’re perfectly spicy as it is, thank you very much.” Now Jasper had gone back to prim-and-shy mode, which was always good for a laugh. “Now I’m assuming that wasn’t the emergency you’re calling about.”

“Sadly, this one actually trumps the emergency in my pants. I suffered a few…setbacks yesterday. And I’m going to need some help for a little while.”

“What kind of help?”

“You haven’t gone and done anything like filled your spare bedroom with books, have you?”

“No, but why am I starting to think maybe I should have done?”

“I need a place to stay.”

“I knew it.”

“I’ve lost my job, and I’m being evicted. Please, Jasper. There’s no one else I can ask.”

“What about this bloke you’ve been seeing so much of lately? You know, the one who keeps taking you out to dinner.”

“Grant? He’s married. I don’t think his wife and kids would be too thrilled with me camping out at their place.”