Spencer took him to a small brasserie in Soho for lunch, tucked away and not overrun by tourists, even on a Saturday, and it all felt so normal. But in a good way, not a boring one. In fact, he got a kick out of flirting in public with Spencer, easily the best-looking guy around, and hitting the submissive button every now and then. He’d give Spencer an order where other boyfriends would have phrased things as a request, and he loved how Spencer responded immediately. He especially loved how Spencer would not just obey, but give him one of those sexy looks that promised submission and acceptance and scorching sex when they returned.
From there, they took the Tube to Southwark and walked to the imposing brick mountain of the former power station that now housed the Tate. He hadn’t known that Spencer was into art, though his house certainly suggested that he appreciated good design. Nick had been to too many clients’ houses to assume that gayness came with inbuilt good taste.
Wandering through the collection, it struck him that Spencer was pretty well-rounded as a human being. Many finance guys in the City only cared about art when they knew the price tag, as an investment, or as something to go with the couch. Spencer, on the other hand, could easily hold his own in a conversation about Expressionism, for example, and as a bonus, managed to not sound like a pretentious arsehole the way so many other people did when discussing art.
They discovered a new acquisition, too: a cycle of three WWI paintings by Johan Brasche, recently donated by an Anonymous. The first one was clearly a bit of a rip-off of a much better Brücke painting and brought back Franz Marc’s Fighting Forms—though this was whimsically called Les Amoureux, The Lovers. Spencer remarked that love and war were possibly quite a bit too close for comfort at times. The two other paintings, however, revealed an artist who’d discovered his own language. The palette was drab and murky, and in a nightmarish WWI landscape lay a man drowned—dead, anyway—in a pool in a bomb crater, just the line of a helmet or head, shoulders, and a back visible, but all identifying marks and colours and shapes made anonymous and meaningless by mud.
Le Baigneur. The Bather.
Nick reached for Spencer’s hand, and Spencer squeezed back. Whenever Nick felt that he was cruel and got a kick out of suffering, art like this reminded him of the real horrors of life and humanity. It had absolutely helped to keep himself sane when he’d doubted a great deal of what he wanted, or that it was right to want these things.
“Before we go through the Impressionists,” Spencer said at the end of the exhibit, “I could do with another coffee. Café’s on the top floor.”
Touted as one of the most family friendly places to eat, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that there were families, some quite loud and happy, which usually irritated Nick. It wasn’t that he was antisocial, it was just that he normally preferred to have his caffeine surrounded by quiet. But with Spencer, he didn’t really mind a great many things that would normally have made him turn around and walk back out.
As they took places near the windows, he made eye contact with a man—good-looking, dark-haired, expensive watch—who was there with a woman and children Nick assumed were his family. Ice water ran down his back. A client. The man froze too, gaze darting to Spencer, back to Nick.
Then the man’s wife glanced over her shoulder, probably wondering what had caught her husband’s eye. To Nick’s horror, as soon as she saw them, she smiled and started in their direction. His heart stopped. This . . . wasn’t good.
“Spencer?” she said as she approached the table. “Is that you?”
Spencer turned towards her and jumped. “Linda? Long time, no see.” He stood, embraced her gently, and then looked past her and must have seen her husband, because his posture suddenly reflected the oh fuck twisting in Nick’s gut.
The husband strolled towards them, hands in his pockets and a weird look on his face. Not quite a smirk, not quite a scowl. A little bit smug and a little bit sheepish? God, he was tough to read.
When he’s dressed anyway, Nick thought.
“And who’s your friend?” the oblivious woman asked, turning towards Nick.
Spencer glanced at Nick, then cleared his throat. “This is Nick.” Pause. Swallow. Heartbeat. “My boyfriend.”
The husband stopped so suddenly his shoe squeaked on the floor. “Your boyfriend?”
Nick eyed him coolly. Yeah? What of it? But secretly, he was just as stunned. Had Spencer really just outed himself?
“Oh.” Linda seemed startled by the introduction, but either recovered quickly or was just damned good at faking it, and extended her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Nick.”
Nick smiled. “You too.” As he shook her hand, multiple thick rings cool against his fingers, he glanced at her husband, who’d paled. Oh don’t look so disgusted, you prick. You’ve taken my dick up your arse.
Linda released Nick’s hand and stood beside her husband as Spencer made introductions, offering up only the man’s name—Glenn—but no further details about how they knew each other. Since Glenn had come into the Garden with Percy, the same guy who’d brought Spencer in the first time, it was a safe bet they ran in the same professional circles.
After some brief small talk, Linda said, “Well, this was certainly a surprise. And Spencer, we haven’t seen you in ages. You really must come to dinner again soon.”