adore this stunning reflection in the mirror? I was sure then that he was gay even though he was busy trying to convince me he was straight.
As he finally tore himself away from the mirror I noted he was wearing a beautiful suit, light grey, which shimmered over his long limbs as if the designer had merely waved a magic wand to convert the sketch on the drawing board into a tailor’s dream. His close-fitting pale blue shirt, uncluttered by a tie, was the perfect shade to match the unusual grey, and the effect was immensely stylish: modern and sophisticated without being bizarre or louche. I was aware of the nerve-ends tingling in my stomach as the lethal sexual attraction kicked in.
“Ready?” he said, looking straight at me, and as he looked he widened his eyes so that they seemed even brighter and bluer than they already were.
“Sure,” I said at once, managing to sound quite unfazed, but I was wishing that Richard had never kept photos of Gavin in his flat and that I had never committed myself to a scheme to retrieve them.
Outside the building Gavin said: “No need for a cab. My car’s only a couple of minutes away.”
“Where’s your parking slot?”
“The Data-Press Building.”
“I bet that costs you plenty!”
“I screw for it four times a year.”
Knowing he wanted me to be disapproving I said in my most neutral voice: “I suppose you screw for the flat too.”
“No, I own it,” he said without hesitation, and although I was sceptical his car suggested he really did earn big money. It was not an Aston Martin or a Lotus but it was still an impressive boy-toy; I found myself looking at a Jaguar XJ-S Le Mans V12, dark blue with cream upholstery, and I was unable to resist asking how much it cost.
“It was a gift,” he said carelessly, “but they retail for around forty thousand. You got wheels?”
“A Porsche.”
“Sweetie, you need to update! No one drives a flash krautmobile any more except for Eastenders trying to be Essex men!”
“Bit of a snob, aren’t you?”
“Bloody right I am—I’m a Surrey man! Don’t you know anything about being brought up in a middle-class ghetto?”
“Why should I?” I retorted. “I was born in a Glasgow slum and lived in a low-income suburb of Newcastle before I got to Oxford and re-invented myself. Why are you banging on about how classy you are? Am I supposed to be impressed?”
“No, intrigued. Panting to know more.”
“What intrigues me, as a tax lawyer, is how much the Revenue sees of your earnings! Do you have a bent accountant?”
“No need, love,” he said, switching to a south London accent so abruptly that I wondered if the talk about Surrey had been a fantasy. “I’m a law-abiding leisure-worker and everything I do’s legal. My manager takes care of the tax shit.”
“You mean your pimp?”
“I mean the woman I live with. What would I want with a pimp? Pimps are for chicks, not blokes—and particularly not for blokes like me who’ve got a top section of the leisure market creamed off.” His accent kept veering back towards the Home Counties to make me realise it was the south London accent which was faked. Or was it? He seemed to be experimenting with different personalities to see which one cut the most ice.
As we drove out of the City into the West End he demanded abruptly: “You been to Richard’s flat?”
“Yes, a couple of times when Moira was up in town. Why?”
“Just wondered. I’ve never seen the Mayfair place but I’ve been to his home at Compton Beeches—he took me there once after we’d been sailing.” He was trying out yet another identity. This one was nonflamboyant, casual, not unpleasant. The Home Counties accent was still there but it had been flattened and modernised, and deciding I might be able to do business with this personality I asked idly: “Did he ever take you out on the town during the week?”
“I don’t do escort work, I told you that, and I don’t do evenings. He had a
As he finally tore himself away from the mirror I noted he was wearing a beautiful suit, light grey, which shimmered over his long limbs as if the designer had merely waved a magic wand to convert the sketch on the drawing board into a tailor’s dream. His close-fitting pale blue shirt, uncluttered by a tie, was the perfect shade to match the unusual grey, and the effect was immensely stylish: modern and sophisticated without being bizarre or louche. I was aware of the nerve-ends tingling in my stomach as the lethal sexual attraction kicked in.
“Ready?” he said, looking straight at me, and as he looked he widened his eyes so that they seemed even brighter and bluer than they already were.
“Sure,” I said at once, managing to sound quite unfazed, but I was wishing that Richard had never kept photos of Gavin in his flat and that I had never committed myself to a scheme to retrieve them.
Outside the building Gavin said: “No need for a cab. My car’s only a couple of minutes away.”
“Where’s your parking slot?”
“The Data-Press Building.”
“I bet that costs you plenty!”
“I screw for it four times a year.”
Knowing he wanted me to be disapproving I said in my most neutral voice: “I suppose you screw for the flat too.”
“No, I own it,” he said without hesitation, and although I was sceptical his car suggested he really did earn big money. It was not an Aston Martin or a Lotus but it was still an impressive boy-toy; I found myself looking at a Jaguar XJ-S Le Mans V12, dark blue with cream upholstery, and I was unable to resist asking how much it cost.
“It was a gift,” he said carelessly, “but they retail for around forty thousand. You got wheels?”
“A Porsche.”
“Sweetie, you need to update! No one drives a flash krautmobile any more except for Eastenders trying to be Essex men!”
“Bit of a snob, aren’t you?”
“Bloody right I am—I’m a Surrey man! Don’t you know anything about being brought up in a middle-class ghetto?”
“Why should I?” I retorted. “I was born in a Glasgow slum and lived in a low-income suburb of Newcastle before I got to Oxford and re-invented myself. Why are you banging on about how classy you are? Am I supposed to be impressed?”
“No, intrigued. Panting to know more.”
“What intrigues me, as a tax lawyer, is how much the Revenue sees of your earnings! Do you have a bent accountant?”
“No need, love,” he said, switching to a south London accent so abruptly that I wondered if the talk about Surrey had been a fantasy. “I’m a law-abiding leisure-worker and everything I do’s legal. My manager takes care of the tax shit.”
“You mean your pimp?”
“I mean the woman I live with. What would I want with a pimp? Pimps are for chicks, not blokes—and particularly not for blokes like me who’ve got a top section of the leisure market creamed off.” His accent kept veering back towards the Home Counties to make me realise it was the south London accent which was faked. Or was it? He seemed to be experimenting with different personalities to see which one cut the most ice.
As we drove out of the City into the West End he demanded abruptly: “You been to Richard’s flat?”
“Yes, a couple of times when Moira was up in town. Why?”
“Just wondered. I’ve never seen the Mayfair place but I’ve been to his home at Compton Beeches—he took me there once after we’d been sailing.” He was trying out yet another identity. This one was nonflamboyant, casual, not unpleasant. The Home Counties accent was still there but it had been flattened and modernised, and deciding I might be able to do business with this personality I asked idly: “Did he ever take you out on the town during the week?”
“I don’t do escort work, I told you that, and I don’t do evenings. He had a
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