Shaws had promised him could he have the building up and running by the next bank holiday. And he wouldn't turn his concerns anywhere else.
As he'd obviously been doing that very morning, much to Cliffs rising anxiety.
Cliff had come into the kitchen at six A.M., having awakened from a fitful sleep by the sudden knowledge that Gerry was no longer in bed at his side. He'd wrapped himself in a terry-cloth bathrobe and found Gerry where he'd apparently been for some time, standing fully clothed at the open window. This looked out upon five feet of concrete promenade, beyond which was the strand, beyond which was the sea. Gerry had been standing there, holding a mug of coffee, thinking the sort of private thoughts that always made Cliff begin to worry.
Gerry wasn't a bloke who generally kept his thoughts private at all: To him, being lovers meant living in each other's socks, which in its turn meant engaging in soulful conversations, frequent breast barings, and endless evaluations of
"the state of the relationship." Cliff couldn't really abide this way of being involved with a bloke, but he'd learned to put up with it. These were Gerry's digs, after all, and even if that hadn't been the case, he liked Gerry well enough. So he'd schooled himself to cooperate in the conversation game with a fair amount of grudging good grace.
But recently, the situation had altered subtly between them. Gerry's concern for the state of their union seemed to nave taaea. ne u sujppcu talking so much about it and, more ominously, he'd stopped clinging quite so tightly to Cliff.
This made Cliff want to start clinging to him.
Which was ludicrous, daft, and just plain idiotic.
Which pissed Cliff off, because most of the time it was Cliff who needed space and Gerry who never wanted him to have it.
Cliff had joined him at the kitchen window.
Over his lover's shoulder he'd seen that bright snakes of early morning light were beginning to crawl across the sea. Backlit against them, a fishing boat chugged north.
Gulls were silhouetted against the sky. While Cliff was no lover of natural beauty, he knew when a vista offered the opportunity for contemplation.
And that's what Gerry had appeared to be doing when Cliff came upon him. He seemed to be thinking.
Cliff had put his hand on Gerry's neck, knowing that in the past, their roles would have been reversed. Gerry would have offered the caress, a gentle touch but one that demanded in spite of itself, saying: Acknowledge me, please, touch me in turn, tell me you love me as well, as much, as blindly, as selflessly as I love you.
Before, Cliff would have wanted to shrug Gerry's hand away. No, truth be told, his first reaction would have been wanting to slap Gerry's hand away. In fact, he would have wanted to swat Gerry right across the room, because that touch of his - so solicitous and tender - would have made demands upon him that he hadn't the energy or the ability to meet. But this morning he'd found himself playing Gerry's role, wanting a sign from Gerry that their relationship was still intact and foremost in the other man's thoughts.
Gerry had stirred beneath his hand, as if roused from sleep. His fingers made an effort at contact, but their graze felt to Cliff like a duty done, similar to one of those dry, stiff-lipped kisses exchanged by people who've been together too long.
Cliff had let his hand drop from Gerry's neck.
Shit, he thought, and wondered what to say. He started with the obvious. "Couldn't sleep?
How long've you been up?"
"A while." Gerry raised his coffee mug.
Cliff had observed the other man's reflection in the window and tried to read it. But because it was a morning rather than a nightime image, it showed little more than the shape of him, a beefy man who was bulky and solid with a body hard and strong from labour.
"What's wrong?" Cliff had asked him.
"Nothing. I couldn't sleep. It's too hot for me.
This weather's unbelievable. You'd think we were living in Acapulco."
Cliff had tested the water in a way that Gerry himself might have done had their positions been reversed. He said, "You wish we were living in Acapulco. You and all those nice young Mexican boys ..."
And he'd waited for the kind of reassurance that Gerry himself once would have wanted from him: Me and nice young Mexican boys? You daft, mate? Who gives a flying one for a greasy kid