here to use on the weekdays when we didn’t meet.”
“Use?”
“For masturbation.”
I opened the door of the fitted closet. “So we’re looking for hard-core porn.”
“You kidding? The first batch can be passed off as ‘art’ and sold openly in the pseuds’ corner of any mainstream bookshop. The second batch can be passed off as fun for the boys and stocked openly in any gay bookshop. And although the third batch contains pics only a sex shop would sell, I’m not photographed with anyone or anything so there’s no way the stuff would fall foul of the Act as it’s currently enforced.” And he added as easily as if we were talking about the weather: “My manager says why break the law when it’s possible to make so much money legally? That’s why I never do parties. One-to-one gay sex between consenting adults is okay. Parties aren’t. And I never get mixed up with serious S&M either because that’s often legally borderline, and anyway if I get smashed up I can’t work. Of course the odds are I wouldn’t get smashed up because I know how to fight, but some of these pervs can slip on the handcuffs even while you’re condom-stuffing, so you’ve got to be constantly on the alert.”
“How exhausting it all sounds.” I suddenly noticed the bookcase behind the door. “Wait a moment,” I said suddenly. “Even if Richard’s kids were in a snooping mood, they wouldn’t look twice at Daddy’s sailing books, would they? Moira told me neither of them liked sailing.”
“Richard told me that too.” Gavin was already stooping to pull out a large coffee-table book about the history of sailing at Cowes, and as I watched, a brown envelope slid from the pages to the floor.
“Success!” I exclaimed with relief.
“It’s only one batch,” he said, but when he grabbed the next book another envelope fell out. Reaching into the empty space created by the removal of both books he then pulled out the third batch which had been hidden behind them.
“Let me do a count to make sure they’re all there . . .” He drew out the photos, and although I retreated to the window to wait I was aware of him stealing a glance at me. The next moment I heard him murmur amused: “Wicked!” but I immediately faked a yawn, glanced at my watch and said: “Get a move on, can’t you?”
“I’ve just come across this truly amazing pic of my equipment. Want to look?”
“Sweet of you,” I said, adjusting my watchstrap, “but why should I be interested in equipment that’s sold to all-comers by a pretty-boy too immature to know better?”
“Someone immature wouldn’t last two weeks in the kind of world I live in! But thanks for calling me a pretty-boy, angel-tits. It gives me carte blanche to call you any name I like.” Stuffing the photos back in their envelopes he turned aside and paused to pick up the silver-framed photo which stood there. It was a picture of Richard with his children, and the background of a garden suggested it had been taken at Compton Beeches. The two adolescents stood together, slightly apart from him, and as Bridget was plump I knew the photo must have been taken some years ago. It was an excellent picture of Richard. His vitality seemed to rise from the frame and hit me straight between the eyes.
“I want this,” said Gavin suddenly.
I was shocked. “Well, you can’t have it! Nothing leaves this flat except for your vile photos!”
“How do you know they’re vile if you refuse to look at them?”
“After your descriptions I don’t need to look. Gavin, put that picture down!”
“Moira won’t want it!”
“But the kids might, and they’ve got more right to it than you have!”
He sulked. He sulked beautifully, careful to milk the mood for maximum effect. His handsome mouth tightened. His jaw seemed more elegant than ever as he tilted it. His long dark lashes pointed downwards past his cheekbones as he gazed at the photograph and refused to look at me. But finally he
“Use?”
“For masturbation.”
I opened the door of the fitted closet. “So we’re looking for hard-core porn.”
“You kidding? The first batch can be passed off as ‘art’ and sold openly in the pseuds’ corner of any mainstream bookshop. The second batch can be passed off as fun for the boys and stocked openly in any gay bookshop. And although the third batch contains pics only a sex shop would sell, I’m not photographed with anyone or anything so there’s no way the stuff would fall foul of the Act as it’s currently enforced.” And he added as easily as if we were talking about the weather: “My manager says why break the law when it’s possible to make so much money legally? That’s why I never do parties. One-to-one gay sex between consenting adults is okay. Parties aren’t. And I never get mixed up with serious S&M either because that’s often legally borderline, and anyway if I get smashed up I can’t work. Of course the odds are I wouldn’t get smashed up because I know how to fight, but some of these pervs can slip on the handcuffs even while you’re condom-stuffing, so you’ve got to be constantly on the alert.”
“How exhausting it all sounds.” I suddenly noticed the bookcase behind the door. “Wait a moment,” I said suddenly. “Even if Richard’s kids were in a snooping mood, they wouldn’t look twice at Daddy’s sailing books, would they? Moira told me neither of them liked sailing.”
“Richard told me that too.” Gavin was already stooping to pull out a large coffee-table book about the history of sailing at Cowes, and as I watched, a brown envelope slid from the pages to the floor.
“Success!” I exclaimed with relief.
“It’s only one batch,” he said, but when he grabbed the next book another envelope fell out. Reaching into the empty space created by the removal of both books he then pulled out the third batch which had been hidden behind them.
“Let me do a count to make sure they’re all there . . .” He drew out the photos, and although I retreated to the window to wait I was aware of him stealing a glance at me. The next moment I heard him murmur amused: “Wicked!” but I immediately faked a yawn, glanced at my watch and said: “Get a move on, can’t you?”
“I’ve just come across this truly amazing pic of my equipment. Want to look?”
“Sweet of you,” I said, adjusting my watchstrap, “but why should I be interested in equipment that’s sold to all-comers by a pretty-boy too immature to know better?”
“Someone immature wouldn’t last two weeks in the kind of world I live in! But thanks for calling me a pretty-boy, angel-tits. It gives me carte blanche to call you any name I like.” Stuffing the photos back in their envelopes he turned aside and paused to pick up the silver-framed photo which stood there. It was a picture of Richard with his children, and the background of a garden suggested it had been taken at Compton Beeches. The two adolescents stood together, slightly apart from him, and as Bridget was plump I knew the photo must have been taken some years ago. It was an excellent picture of Richard. His vitality seemed to rise from the frame and hit me straight between the eyes.
“I want this,” said Gavin suddenly.
I was shocked. “Well, you can’t have it! Nothing leaves this flat except for your vile photos!”
“How do you know they’re vile if you refuse to look at them?”
“After your descriptions I don’t need to look. Gavin, put that picture down!”
“Moira won’t want it!”
“But the kids might, and they’ve got more right to it than you have!”
He sulked. He sulked beautifully, careful to milk the mood for maximum effect. His handsome mouth tightened. His jaw seemed more elegant than ever as he tilted it. His long dark lashes pointed downwards past his cheekbones as he gazed at the photograph and refused to look at me. But finally he
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