Extra Time: The District Line #4 Page 11

  “Went to London.” Jay opted for the piping hot porridge, squirting honey on the top, then meandered past him to sit on one of the tables, begging for a pot of coffee from the nearest roaming server.

  Bruno plonked down in front of him. “London?”

  “Seb’s press night launch for his musical,” he yawned through the delivery. This felt like déjà vu. When Bruno had been his captain at West Ham, he’d once reprimanded him for taking a leave of absence in New York. That had been to see Seb too. The moment that had changed his whole life. Jay breathed out a smile. It would only ever be for Seb that Jay would risk so much for.

  “Well, that’s…” Bruno stirred milk into his coffee, shaking his head. “A better excuse than that lot have.” He nodded over to Wrighty and the back four, all no doubt nursing hangovers and downing enough coffee to get them through the next five hours of gruelling training. Nothing like a bit of sweat to rid the night before off.

  Jay met with Wrighty’s gaze over the team and coaching staff dotted around the dining hall all idly delving into the morning delights. He turned back to Bruno. “Your rebel days firmly behind you then?” he asked, deciding not to elaborate on what had happened last night whilst in the casino. He wasn’t a grass. Not on his teammates.

  “Absolutely.” Bruno scraped the last of his cereal into his mouth. “This is my last cap. I’m nearly forty, mate. I ain’t risking anything taking me off this squad. Clinging on to the bitter end.”

  Jay watched him, mulling over that statement. This team, this national side, this game of football meant everything to Bruno. He’d spent over twenty years of his life on a pitch. There wouldn’t be anything that would take him off it.

  “You ever been asked not to do something in order to play?” Jay asked him after a moment’s reflection.

  “Huh?” Bruno sipped his coffee. “Like, not bail on the team for a fuck?”

  “Like being asked not to get married.”

  Bruno dumped his cup on the table. “You what?”

  Jay nodded, chewing on his lip. “Got told it would be best if I postponed my wedding until after the World Cup.”

  “Shit.” Bruno stroked his fingers across his brow. “That sucks, mate. When was it set for?”

  “Hadn’t set a date as such. It’s only just been legalised.”

  “Right.” Bruno nodded, obviously forgetting that part of the problem with why he and Seb hadn’t tied the knot before now. “Course. But you’re pissed they’ve asked you to wait?”

  Jay shrugged. “It doesn’t seem like they’d ask anyone else. Wrighty’s getting married between qualifiers.” He glanced over to the others again. “Why ain’t he been told to wait.”

  “Cause it was already booked?”

  Jay scrubbed his hands down his face—his tired, dishevelled, and weary face. His face that had had enough of these conversations. “Or is it cause he’s marrying a woman,” he said. “And it wouldn’t be news.”

  Bruno sat back in his chair. “There is an argument there.”

  “I know, and I think I’ve had enough of it.”

  Bruno arched an eyebrow. “Of football?”

  “Of what comes with football. The sacrifices. The shit. The feeling like rules only apply to me.” He glanced again to Wrighty, sighed then leaned forward to lower his voice. “Wright can get married. He can also fuck about with girls on tap whilst playing for England. No one cares. Me? I want to see my fiancé’s opening night. I want to marry the man I asked to six years ago. Yet those things are the ones that get frowned upon.” He smoothed back his hair. “I’m sick of tellin’ Seb that he don’t matter.”

  “This is England, Rutters. Football is what matters.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s only a delay, Ruts. A year?”

  “And I’ll wait a year. I’ll throw myself at this team and at the cup. I’ll prove I belong here. But I ain’t gonna pretend any of this is fair.” He scraped back his chair and stood. “’Cause it ain’t.”

  “Go work that off in the gym before pitch side, yeah? No one needs to know you’re on a knife edge.”

  Jay went to do just that, but before he’d reached the door, Wright bolted across the dining hall and grabbed his arm.

  “No hard feelings, eh, Ruts?” he asked, eyes hopeful.

  “About what?”

  “Last night. We thought we’d offer you what we get. There’s no harm in it, y’know. Perks of being a footballer.” He winked.

  “You crack on, Wrighty.” Jay removed his arm from his grip. “I’m just here to play football. See you on pitch.”

  Jay meant it. He didn’t care what the others did after hours any more than they should care what he did. This was a job. They were a team. If he accepted them, they’d accept him. And if they didn’t, then the opposition would be the first to attack that weakness. It was in everyone’s best interest to get along.

  So Jay threw himself into the gym work out, then the pitch drills and told himself that some sacrifices were only temporary.

  Seb, and his love for him, was permanent.

  * * * *

  Seb pottered around the house. He had nothing to do. For the first time in forever he didn’t have to be anywhere or do anything. He wasn’t needed at the theatre, leaving the musical to run its course with Eleanor at the helm. The band were on a hiatus so Martin could concentrate on his new family. And Seb was feeling the empty void of Jay’s absence more than he usually would. Jay having turned up unannounced yesterday had raised his hackles. It was as though Jay was waning. Deflating. Not with him, but with the demands that were consistently put upon him.

  He hated that Jay’s career never allowed him the freedom that his own did.

  He decided he’d do something for the both of them whilst he had the time. A gift for Jay when he returned from his stint playing the all-England boy. So he dressed in old clothes, grabbed the paint and decorating equipment from the garage, and hauled it into the spare room. He stopped, hands on hips, and glanced around at the blank canvas. He and Jay had gutted the room a year ago. The moment they’d decided to try the surrogacy route, they’d transformed this room into a potential nursery. They’d not painted it and after the first couple of misfires, they’d left it so as not to tempt fate.

  This time though, Seb was going to risk it.

  Normally, he’d call in a professional. Like he had for the rest of the house. But it seemed important somehow, to honour this room with his own hands. Regardless of how awful it turned out. He could always have a go first, then call in reinforcements to re do it later. They’d picked out a neutral golden yellow and bought a few stickers to decorate the wall—guitars, music notes, footballs. Pulling up his sleeves, he set to work by scrubbing the walls.

  He’d almost finished the clean-up while dancing along to the track he’d put on the surround system and had dragged the sheets over most of the carpet when the music stopped. It allowed for him to hear the buzzer burst around the house speakers. Slapping the dust from his hands over his old pair of joggers, he ran down the stairs and checked the camera by the door focusing on the visitor loitering by his front gate.

  “Fuck me.” He ran a hand through his hair, no doubt coating it in a fine layer of dust. Then, with a deep inhale, he pressed the speaker and released the gate. “It’s open.”

  He fiddled with the locks and opened the front door to watch Will Saunders, fully suited, one hand in his trouser pocket and the other fiddling with the buttons on his blazer, saunter up to his house.

  “Dad,” Seb greeted with a tilt of his head. “Bit of a surprise.”

  “I was passing.”

  “From New York?”

  “I’ve been here a few weeks.” Will appeared a little off kilter. So very unlike the man who Seb had grown up with. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

  “Not at all.” Seb gestured down to himself. “Apologies for the state you find me in. I’m decorating.”

  “You know there are professionals for that
sort of thing.”

  “This is a personal job.” Seb opened the door wider. “Come in. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Is it too early for a G&T?” Will stepped into the house, a hopeful inflection to his question.

  “Is it ever?” Seb closed the door, a strange unrest waving over him. He’d never sat and had a drink with his father before. Not without necessity. He wasn’t sure they’d ever properly conversed. Did this mean a change was in the air or more bad news was about to slap him from grace? “Take a seat in the lounge, I’ll bring it out to you.”

  Will nodded, making his way through the house, and peering into each room as he passed. Will also hadn’t spent much time here, so he wasn’t familiar with where Seb had ended up. And it added to the surrealism of his presence to watch him fumbling his way.

  Seb rushed off to the kitchen and rummaged around to fix his father’s drink, and one for himself. So what if it wasn’t quite midday yet. The fact his father had come to see him out of the blue was worth a celebration. If not so much a celebration, then an alcoholic beverage to get through it. Will’s move over to New York several years back had seen him spending more time in the US with only fleeting visits to check on his investments in the U.K., which rarely included Seb. Saunders Property Empire had grown rapidly, earning Will a Knighthood for his services. Following well and truly his father and father-in-law’s footsteps, which is how things went in those upper middle-class circles.

  Seb was the one who’d broken free from all that.

  Ice clinking within the tumblers, Seb dashed back into the lounge and handed a drink to his father sat on the curved sofa. “Sir,” he said with a servitude bow.

  Will smiled, which was an odd sight and Seb staggered back to sit in the armchair beneath the bay window, eyes narrowed. His father appeared different. Not so stiff upper lip. Maybe age was catching up with him. Maybe not having to deal with Seb and his antics anymore had lifted the weights he’d carried. Maybe he had a woman in the city who’d put a spring in his step?

  Seb shuddered.

  “What do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, sipping from his Gin and Tonic that contained more former than latter. Painting might go awry after this.

  “Do I need a reason to visit my only son?” Will asked, wincing as he took a sip from his drink. He coughed, punching his chest. “That’s quite some mix.”

  Seb shrugged. “I’m alone and have nothing to do for the next few weeks.” He held up his glass. “Might as well.”

  “Not required at that musical of yours? I’ve read some of the reviews.”

  “You have?”

  “The one covered by the Times. It was rather congratulatory. It seems your mother’s early influence in stage theatrics rubbed off on you more than I gave credit for.”

  “Or would have hoped for.”

  “Maybe back then. I am a changed man.”

  “A sir no less.”

  “Indeed.” Will held up his glass in cheers then took a lingering sip. “So why are you home alone?” He glanced around as if searching for Jay. His father had never been a football fan. It was far too working class for his liking, regardless of the obscene wages the players received which aided their social mobility into higher realms than his father roamed. Will was more into Wimbledon and horse racing. As a spectator at that. He hadn’t even been much of a rugger player during his Winchester days either. Neither had Seb. He’d preferred the spectator side too. Which had got him into a bit of bother with his fellow borders.

  Good times.

  “Football,” Seb answered. “He’s at the England training camp.” He tried ever so hard to remove the bitterness from that. “He’ll be playing in Brazil.”

  “That’s quite some achievement.”

  “It is. I’m exceptionally proud of him.”

  “Yet you have that pout.” Will flicked a finger from around his glass to point at Seb. “I know that pout. It looks like when I told you I wouldn’t buy you a puppy from Oscar’s dog’s litter.”

  “I would have loved that puppy. Fiercely.”

  “You would have forgotten it the moment it came home and Yulia would have had to care for yet another abandoned mouth.”

  Seb snorted. “It’s just the timing,” he said, moving away from the reminiscence that didn’t have the flippancy it should. He’d longed for any sort of companion back then. A puppy would have been a far better choice than the one his father then bestowed on him a few years later. Seb shuddered for real that time. “The timing sucks. I’d really love for him to be here right now.”

  “The sacrifices of the successful.”

  “Never more accurate.” Seb held up his glass and they air clinked across the room before sliding more G&T down their gullets.

  “I’m going to assume that the timing is due to the current legislation that has just been passed.”

  Seb caught Will’s wide-eyed suggestive gaze and crunched through an ice cube. His father grimaced at his uncouthness. It felt good not to have to care so much about that anymore.

  Seb swallowed. “That’s some of it, yes,” he said.

  “And the reason for why I am here.” Will downed the rest of his drink and placed the glass on the coffee table, ensuring he used the bronze coasters available.

  “For an invite?”

  “For a proposition.” He reached into his inside blazer pocket and tugged out a pamphlet. “Do you remember that plot of land my father owned in Winchester?”

  Seb furrowed his brow. “Not really.”

  “Couple of thousand acres. Country house. It was run down. We visited a few times in the summer. Blasted man never did anything with it, nor would he sell it to me. Even in his death, he forbade it. There was a condition to my ownership.”

  “Which was?” Seb vaguely remembered visiting the old derelict plot with his grandfather when he’d been a child and into his early teens. Before he was allowed the luxury of solitude. Sans the puppy.

  “To be honoured by the Queen,” Will said.

  “Good old Grandaddy. Always striving for the top.” Seb waved his glass before knocking back his last mouthful. “So it’s yours now?”

  “Indeed. And for the past year I’ve transformed it.” He lifted up from the sofa and handed over a tri-folding leaflet to Seb. “That’s the initial marketing pamphlet, we’ll have a larger brochure produced shortly.”

  Seb dropped his glass beside him on the floor, ignoring his father’s displeasure considering this was his cream carpet and not the old one back in the Kensington property that Seb had ruined more times than he cared to admit—or ever did admit to their housekeeper who’d had to clean it—and opened the glossy leaflet. “Looks stunning,” he said, taking in the pictures of the refurbished stately home, sweeping lanes to its grand entrance and lavish gardens, even a lake with swans. “You moving in? Charging for visitors?”

  “It’s a country club with a wedding venue.”

  Seb glanced up. “You’ve not dabbled in that market before.”

  “No. It’s a gamble. A passion project, if you will.”

  “Is this your way of telling me you’re getting married again? Who’s the unlucky lady?” Seb grinned. “Wait, is she a lady? A proper lady? You’re finally marrying inner circle? Was that what Grandaddy wanted of you? Forget that American actress, wed a lady and get a country house.”

  “This venue is for you, Sebastian.”

  “You want me to join your country club? Afraid to inform you, Dad, but I was banned from Winchester some time back.”

  “I’d like for you to marry there.”

  Seb slapped the pamphlet to his lap, gaping open mouthed at his father. Had he heard right? His very conservative father offering a venue for his gay son to hold a gay wedding. A venue tied to the family wealth and the traditions that came with it. His grandparents had died some years ago, before he’d met Jay, but it had been common knowledge among the family that he was gay from an early age. It hadn’t been spoken about in any negativity. But nor had there
been pride or acceptance. It was, much like everything in the Chelsea and Westminster circles, swept under the Persian carpet.

  “Dad, I—”

  “Hear me out,” Will cut him off with a finger held high. “This isn’t intended as a sales pitch to you. I’m showing you the pamphlet merely for you to see what’s available. I would like to extend an invite to you, and Jay, for supper there one evening. I’d like to show you around. But for now, I’d like you to consider Saunders House as to where you hold your ceremony. Your legal ceremony. And the first one for our country club.”

  “You want the first wedding you hold to be a gay one?”

  “A ceremony is a ceremony. This will certainly be one that goes down in history though.”

  “So it’s a PR stunt?”

  “Not at all, Sebastian. It is a gesture. From me to you. As your father. As a contributor. You will spare no costs for this.”

  Seb crossed his ankle over his opposite knee and flicked through the brochure again. “Money isn’t really an issue for us,” he stuttered out as a way to give him time to process this.

  “I am aware of that. But I would still be inclined to give you this venue and all that comes with it on my expense. As a gift.”

  Seb scrubbed a hand down his face. “Is this so you can sneak in all your high society elite at the same time and use it to show your latest venture in all its glory? Get them signed up as members?”

  Will sighed. “No, Sebastian. And I understand why you are desperate to find a catch in my offer. Please rest assured that this is a purely selfless act. I know I haven’t had many of those in our past. But if anything, you should be aware that my business associates wouldn’t feel inclined to attend a same sex wedding that many of them voted against. This could well push me to the other side and be called out for my liberal impotence.”

  Seb snorted. “In that case, this is very generous of you. But we haven’t decided on when yet. It could be a while. If Saunders House is up and running now, you might as well start flogging it to other couples.”