me."
"First time I've ever joked around at all. Now," Michael said briskly. "Let's get you some food on your stomach before you start vomiting."
But the hamburger and chips came too late. James ate half of it at a fair clip, then disappeared into the men's room for ten minutes. "It's not just the margaritas," he gasped when he returned to the table, translucently pale and shaking. "It's those damn antibiotics."
"Right. Come on, follow me. You've had a grim couple of days and I'm putting you to bed."
James, still tipsy despite all the purging, let Michael lead him to the tube station. They disembarked at Shepherd's Bush and walked to an old building called the Highland Arms. The stairs gave James the dry heaves, but eventually they made it to the third floor. Once inside No. 32, Michael half-carried James through the small sitting room and into the bedroom.
The bed, just an IKEA frame, a mattress, and white cotton sheets, seemed to be exactly what James needed. He stretched out on his back and groaned with what sounded like pleasure.
"Oh, this is so much better than my fucking futon. I'll be crippled before I'm thirty sleeping on that thing. And I haven't really slept since that bastard broke my teeth... I keep dreaming he'll come back and kill me..."
"He's not coming back," Michael said in the same matter-of-fact tone he'd used when six-year-old Edward was plagued by nightmares. "You're safe here and you need to sleep." Michael started to undo James's belt, thinking the other man would sleep more comfortably in just his T-shirt and shorts, but James flinched.
"Sorry." Michael withdrew his hands. "Look, I have to at least check in at the office, so I'll be gone for a while. Stay put till I get back and I'll order us some dinner."
"Michael." James's eyes were red again, tears spilling over. "I owe you. I know I do. But I don't... I just don't think I can..."
"I said dinner. That's all."
"But—what is this place? Where are we?"
"My new flat. Now go to sleep."
***
Michael worked on his current textbook—the overview of world religions—until his boss, Peter, returned from his usual late lunch. Not long ago Peter had allowed one of the more junior writers to work from home most days, turning up at the office only to make presentations and attend meetings. That writer, though competent, frequently missed deadlines and sometimes needed coaching from the senior staff to finish his projects. The only reason he'd been permitted to work from home was, surely, his friendship with Peter. Michael knew he was a far better choice—not only was he capable of supervising himself, but he was the company's most prolific author. After bestowing such a plum on a comparatively undeserving employee, Peter would have no choice but to say yes.
"Absolutely not. And frankly, I'm surprised at you," Peter told Michael, smiling in his usual secretive way. "Perhaps it's time you came clean to me. Is something wrong at home?"
Michael waited, unsure why Peter would ask that. Germanotti was many things, but he was no grass. He hadn't gossiped about James—Michael would have staked his life on it.
"You've radically changed your appearance. You pushed for the world religions survey when you knew I wanted you to handle the machine shop primer. And today you buggered off without so much as an apology."
"I told you. It was medical."
"You don't look sick to me." Peter gave him that secretive smile again. Not a writer, not a teacher, and not an educational theorist, he'd been hired by the company for his expertise as an MBA. It pleased him to look down his nose at subordinates who didn't understand the value of money, who hadn't attended management seminars and motivational talks. "So what's really happening? Why do you need more time at home?"
Michael, who only wanted to spend his workdays in his new flat with James, fought back a smile at the notion of voluntarily spending additional time with Frannie. And she would like it no better, he
"First time I've ever joked around at all. Now," Michael said briskly. "Let's get you some food on your stomach before you start vomiting."
But the hamburger and chips came too late. James ate half of it at a fair clip, then disappeared into the men's room for ten minutes. "It's not just the margaritas," he gasped when he returned to the table, translucently pale and shaking. "It's those damn antibiotics."
"Right. Come on, follow me. You've had a grim couple of days and I'm putting you to bed."
James, still tipsy despite all the purging, let Michael lead him to the tube station. They disembarked at Shepherd's Bush and walked to an old building called the Highland Arms. The stairs gave James the dry heaves, but eventually they made it to the third floor. Once inside No. 32, Michael half-carried James through the small sitting room and into the bedroom.
The bed, just an IKEA frame, a mattress, and white cotton sheets, seemed to be exactly what James needed. He stretched out on his back and groaned with what sounded like pleasure.
"Oh, this is so much better than my fucking futon. I'll be crippled before I'm thirty sleeping on that thing. And I haven't really slept since that bastard broke my teeth... I keep dreaming he'll come back and kill me..."
"He's not coming back," Michael said in the same matter-of-fact tone he'd used when six-year-old Edward was plagued by nightmares. "You're safe here and you need to sleep." Michael started to undo James's belt, thinking the other man would sleep more comfortably in just his T-shirt and shorts, but James flinched.
"Sorry." Michael withdrew his hands. "Look, I have to at least check in at the office, so I'll be gone for a while. Stay put till I get back and I'll order us some dinner."
"Michael." James's eyes were red again, tears spilling over. "I owe you. I know I do. But I don't... I just don't think I can..."
"I said dinner. That's all."
"But—what is this place? Where are we?"
"My new flat. Now go to sleep."
***
Michael worked on his current textbook—the overview of world religions—until his boss, Peter, returned from his usual late lunch. Not long ago Peter had allowed one of the more junior writers to work from home most days, turning up at the office only to make presentations and attend meetings. That writer, though competent, frequently missed deadlines and sometimes needed coaching from the senior staff to finish his projects. The only reason he'd been permitted to work from home was, surely, his friendship with Peter. Michael knew he was a far better choice—not only was he capable of supervising himself, but he was the company's most prolific author. After bestowing such a plum on a comparatively undeserving employee, Peter would have no choice but to say yes.
"Absolutely not. And frankly, I'm surprised at you," Peter told Michael, smiling in his usual secretive way. "Perhaps it's time you came clean to me. Is something wrong at home?"
Michael waited, unsure why Peter would ask that. Germanotti was many things, but he was no grass. He hadn't gossiped about James—Michael would have staked his life on it.
"You've radically changed your appearance. You pushed for the world religions survey when you knew I wanted you to handle the machine shop primer. And today you buggered off without so much as an apology."
"I told you. It was medical."
"You don't look sick to me." Peter gave him that secretive smile again. Not a writer, not a teacher, and not an educational theorist, he'd been hired by the company for his expertise as an MBA. It pleased him to look down his nose at subordinates who didn't understand the value of money, who hadn't attended management seminars and motivational talks. "So what's really happening? Why do you need more time at home?"
Michael, who only wanted to spend his workdays in his new flat with James, fought back a smile at the notion of voluntarily spending additional time with Frannie. And she would like it no better, he
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