Hidden Paradise

chapter FIFTEEN



Rob

Rob snatched the remote from his dad and clicked off the TV.

“What the f*ck—” Mike Temple made a grab for the remote and sank back into his squalid nest of blankets on the sofa. A beer can fell out and rolled onto the floor.

“Can’t you get off your arse? Look at you!” Rob gestured at the sofa, the coffee table littered with beer cans, an overflowing ashtray and the crumpled, stained copy of the local paper, open to the jobs page. A few, but only a few, jobs were circled in red pen. “Don’t bother with the paper, Dad. All the jobs are online and you need to get out and talk to people.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do,” his dad said. He reached for his cigarettes and lit one.

“You shouldn’t smoke in here. It’s bad for the baby, right, Sylvia?”

His sister, carrying a tray with mugs of tea and biscuits, shrugged as she made her way across the living room littered with plastic toys. “I tell him all the time.”

“See?” Rob took a mug of tea. “Thanks. Getting bigger every day, Syl.”

“Okay, okay.” His dad lurched up from the couch and took the few steps over to the sliding-glass door that opened onto the patio.

“Don’t nag him,” Sylvia said. She sank onto the sofa and rubbed her pregnant stomach. “It doesn’t do any good.”

“Hell with that. Graham!” he shouted. “Graham, get your arse down here and pick up your toys.”

A thundering on the stairs announced Graham’s arrival. He edged into the living room, clutching something in his hand.

“What’s that?” Rob asked, giving him a hug.

“My binky.”

“Your—” But before he could say anything, his sister shook her head, warning him not to pursue the matter any further.

“Come on, let’s get this stuff picked up and we’ll go out and play,” Rob said, alarmed that his little brother was reverting to toddlerhood even more. He thought the binky, Graham’s tattered scrap of baby blanket, had been safely put to rest a couple of years ago.

As Graham gathered his toys into a plastic crate, Rob cleared off the table. “Want me to hoover, Syl?”

She smiled at him. “No, you don’t have to do that.”

“I’ll go and talk to Dad, then.”

“Don’t nag him,” she said again. “Have you heard from Mum?”

He shook his head, stepped past Graham and his toys and joined his father on the patio. His dad had finished his cigarette and was pulling weeds from between the flagstones.

“Dad, I thought you’d like to see this.” He handed his father a piece of paper. “I expect you’ve seen it already. It went up on the Paradise website yesterday.”

His dad took the sheet of paper, glanced at it and handed it back, leaving a grubby thumbprint. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Why not? Look, it’s gardening, repairs and security duties, and you could do that. You like gardening. And it comes with a cottage. It’s small but big enough for you and Graham.”

His dad grunted and took the paper again. “What about you?”

“What about me? I’m going to Cambridge in a couple of months.”

“I don’t know if we can afford that.”

“Look, I’ve got an exhibition. It’s a full scholarship. You don’t have to pay a thing. I’ll work in a pub or something for living money.”

“Oh, yeah, and leave Graham behind?”

“We’ll Skype. It’s not like I’m going to another planet.”

“Think where your loyalties lie. It’s bad enough for Graham that his mum’s gone, and now you’re leaving us, too? We could use the money if you stay on at Paradise.”

“That’s your fatherly advice, is it? Then you’d better start acting like a dad. Act like a man. All you do is lie around on that f*cking sofa and get drunk. You let Mum take your balls when she left?” He turned away without waiting for an answer and went back into the house. “Graham, let’s go. Leave the binky with Syl. Binkies don’t like football.”

“Yes, they do.” Graham clutched the grubby bit of fabric to his chest.

“No, they don’t,” Rob said. “Give it to Syl and she and the baby will look after it for you. Get a move on. It’s going to rain again soon.”

“I’ll give it a bit of a wash,” Sylvia said. “Make it all nice and clean. It’ll like that.”

“Okay.” Graham uncurled his fingers from the binky. “Don’t let him get it.”

“I won’t, love. Get your jacket on.” Sylvia whispered as Graham went out to the hall, “Dad tried to throw it out. Graham screamed the place down. Look, Gerry’s back in two weeks and the baby will be here in another six. I don’t know what we’re going to do. There isn’t enough room.”

“I know.” He looked to make sure his dad wasn’t watching and handed her an envelope full of money. “Tips for the week. Don’t let him know and don’t buy him fags.”

She giggled. “Thanks, love. Don’t they pay you in gold coins, then?”

Graham, wearing his jacket and clutching a football, came back into the room. He cast a longing glance at the binky in his sister’s hands. “I’m ready. Come on, Rob.”

* * *

BUGGER, HE WAS LATE BACK AND soaked to the skin—Graham had thrown a massive tantrum at the sight of the binky swirling around in the washer when they’d got back to his sister’s—and after that bit of excitement, Rob’s bike had got a flat on the way back and he’d had to walk the last mile in the rain.

Hoping he was out of sight of the office, he hauled his bike across the cobbled yard and opened the door of what had once been the carriage house.

“Rob!”

Too late. Chris stood at the office door, beckoning imperiously.

“Come on in, Rob. No, stay on the doormat please. I don’t want the carpet ruined. We need you upstairs.”

“I’m on my way,” Rob said, and because by now it was automatic, he added, “sir.”

“It’s raining again, so the ladies can’t go out,” Chris said. He regarded Rob with a slightly malicious air, or it might have been good-natured teasing. With him, you never really knew. “They need a model for a drawing lesson with Viv.”

“A model?”

“Yes. A nude study.”

“What! Why me?”

“Drawing was an accomplishment of a well-bred woman. It’s quite historically correct.”

“Yeah, but…” He unbuttoned his parka, which was dripping wet from the bike ride to the house. “I mean, didn’t they draw flowers and things?”

“The beauty of the male body has long been accepted as an aesthetic ideal,” Chris said. “Get one of the other footmen to do it if it makes you uncomfortable. I’m sure they’ll have no trouble accepting. I imagine the tips will be fantastic. No big deal, but make your mind up. The guests are waiting.”

Rob thought of Ivan the permanently erect—absolutely not—and before he could even do a mental inventory of the lads’ shortcomings (pimpled bottoms, farting) realized that he’d never live it down if he delegated. After all, didn’t they all claim that the female guests were looking for an excuse, any excuse, to rip off the footmen’s livery? It would ensure Rob’s authority in the house. Decades later, another generation of pimpled, farting footmen with joyfully uncontrolled erections would mention the name of Rob Temple with awe and wonder.

Hell, he had to do it. The leader sacrificed himself for the good of the pack.

“Okay,” he said. “Where?”

“The drawing room in ten minutes.” Chris gave a thin smile. “Well, don’t stand there, dripping. You’re on duty as of fifteen minutes ago.”

If you hadn’t called me into the office for this dumb stunt while I was putting the bike away I’d be there now. “Yes, sir.” Rob gave his best insolent sloppy bow, which felt weird in jeans and a sweatshirt. He squelched across the office, but paused in the doorway. It was here that Peter had propositioned him and he was pretty sure Chris knew all about it. “So do I take my kit off in the drawing room, sir?”

Chris sighed and rolled his eyes. “You will present yourself in livery. A screen will be provided behind which you will undress and Viv will provide you with drapery for decency’s sake.”

“Right, then,” Rob said. Well, at least he wouldn’t be totally naked. He hoped the drapery wouldn’t be inspired to move around too much and that Viv wouldn’t get too hands-on about the whole thing. She was okay on her own, all business, but if there were other people around, she was as bad as Chris—when he was in a good mood.

“Good morning, Rob.” Peter, carrying a handful of papers, approached from inside the house.

Rob bowed and flattened himself against the wall to let him by, aware that Chris watched them like a hawk.

“We have an applicant for the groundsman position,” Peter said. “Mike Temple. A relative of yours, is he, Rob?”

Well, at least the stupid sod had got off his arse and done something. “My dad.”

“What an amazing coincidence,” Chris said as Rob retreated down the passage, breaking into a run and unbuttoning his shirt as he left.

He changed into his livery, leaving his clothes in a sodden heap on the floor, stopped in at the Servants’ Hall to check the bulletin board, and ran upstairs. Viv met him in the hall outside the drawing room.

“You’re late,” she said.

“Yeah, sorry, ma’am.”

“Well, come on in. They’re waiting for you.”

Oh, shit. Sarah looked rapacious, Cathy giggled and Lou gave him a cool nod. A small dais had been erected (bad word choice) in the center of the room where apparently he was to recline on a heap of pillows, wearing— He looked at it with distaste as Viv handed a piece of drapery to him. Something the size of a small towel.

“Everything off?” he asked in a whisper. “Could I get a pair of boxers or—”

“What do you think?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Okay.” Now he was worried that he might have some sort of repulsive flaw he didn’t know about.

“And by the way, as I’ve told you before, and you’d better remind the rest of your gang, boxers are inappropriate. They’re not historically correct and they spoil the line of the breeches.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at another bad-tempered overlord. Was it the weather or something? He wasn’t exactly all sweetness and light himself, not after that exchange with his father. He could see the old man’s point, though. If Rob was the only one with a job in the family, he should hang on to it. Graham would need a new school uniform and other stuff, shoes and so on. Kids always did. He remembered his mum exclaiming over Graham’s ability to outgrow shoes in a month, and then sweeping him up into a hug the way she used to do with Rob and Syl.

He didn’t want to think about his mum—he didn’t feel like bursting into tears.

But if his dad didn’t get the groundsman job, or got it and screwed it up or refused to take it as being below him—not that being the owner of a bankrupt chain of tanning salons was particularly high-class—what then? Gerry, who had no great fondness for his father-in-law, would probably demand they all leave before the baby came. Rob just hoped they’d let Graham stay.

He was jolted out of his reverie by Viv tweaking on his sleeve. “I’ll let the shoulders out on your coat. Does it pull when you’re carrying heavy stuff?”

“A little, yes, ma’am. Thanks.”

“You’ve got some muscle, kid.” Her hand lingered.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Stop playing with the help, Viv,” Sarah said. “Not unless you’re willing to share.”

Stupid cow. Yeah, now you want to share me. Rob fixed his polite footman smile on his face and escaped behind the screen in the corner of the room, checking first that he wasn’t providing a peepshow with the mirrors hung around the wall. Gritting his teeth, he draped the scrap of cloth around his waist.

It either covered his butt or his dick, but not both. He removed the thing and shook it, in the hope of it magically expanding.

“Rob?” Viv’s voice came from the other side of the screen. “Here you go.”

A tumble of black silk fell into his hands—a robe that might make him look like a Chippendale dancer but at least he wouldn’t treat the women to a display of wobbling dick as he crossed the room. He wrapped himself in the robe and grasped his protective cloth in the other, with a sudden burst of sympathy for Graham and his binky, and strode out from behind the screen. Head up, shoulders straight, as he’d been taught in what the lads referred to as footman boot camp. Now the three women were arranged around the room with their easels and he’d have to make a choice—which one to face when he assumed the full monty.

Sarah, her mouth half-open with greed: no. Cathy, pink and giggling: no. And Lou, cool and critical, the lesser of three evils apparently, other than Viv who was busy ripping out the seams of his footman’s coat. Lou it was.

He stepped onto the dais and looked her in the eye. He was damned if he was going to look shy, even if he was, and he knew he had nothing to be ashamed of—unless he had some really horrific physical flaw on his back but that wasn’t his fault or his problem. He dropped the dressing gown, feeling only slightly like a stripper, and lowered himself to a kneeling position and then onto one elbow, which seemed the most graceful way of getting horizontal. As an afterthought he tossed the minimal piece of fabric over his crotch.

Done.

Lou gave him a small nod and half smile the way she might have done if he’d retrieved her fallen napkin at dinner.

Whew.

“We’ll give you a break after twenty minutes, but shout if you need to stretch before then.” Viv rearranged him as though he were a piece of furniture, wedging a pillow beneath his arm, straightening out one leg, and he was grateful for her impartiality. He listened as she gave a brief lecture on how they should concentrate on light and shadow and shouldn’t be afraid of the pastels and pencils at their disposal or of using color in an imaginative way. Above all, she instructed them, have fun.

They dithered around for a while, Sarah claiming she had to move. Rob was pretty sure she wanted to see if she could get a sighting of his arse. Then they got started and other than a slight giggle or whisper, it was pretty much silent in the room.

Lou’s pencil scratched. She shook her head, erased something and stared at his torso. A gentle ripping sound came from behind him—Viv at work on his coat, and then the soft pop of a needle penetrating silk.

“What are the guys doing this morning?” Cathy asked.

“Billiards,” Lou said. “Probably getting an early start on the day’s drinking. I wish we could have ridden today.”

“Can’t take the girl out of the cowgirl?” Sarah said in a slightly malicious tone.

“Something like that.”

The dining-room door opened.

“Everything okay?” It was Peter, and Rob only just stopped himself grabbing for his dressing gown. “Are your charges behaving, Viv? Good. Let’s see. Oh, very nice, Cathy. Lovely line. Did you study art?”

“I liked it at school.” Giggle. “We didn’t have this, though.” She gestured toward Rob.

“And Sarah,” Peter went on. “Very unusual. I didn’t realize you could see, er, quite so much from where you are.”

“I’m using my imagination.”

The floor creaked as Peter moved around to Lou and rested a hand on her shoulder. They exchanged a brief, affectionate smile.

“I know. Don’t lose my day job,” Lou said.

“It’s not that bad. So long as you’re enjoying yourself.”

Rob kept his eyes fixed on the wall above Lou’s head. Something had changed—he knew three (possibly four, but Viv was used to people being undressed in her line of work) women were staring at him, but ever since Peter had come into the room, the air had fairly prickled with something more personal, more vivid.

He tried to focus on something else, and sent his mind off for a change of topic.

Lou. Lou in the dark, her breast exposed, rubbing up against him in the dark, her face close to his. His imagination had returned him to the scene again and again, editing out Mac, so it was him alone with Lou in the dark. She didn’t shrink from him in alarm, and this time he wasn’t embarrassed by the meeting or his obvious erection—had she noticed then? But she’d notice this time and reach down to touch him as he caressed her breast with its lovely hard nipple—

Oh shit, oh shit, there was definite movement beneath the cloth as his cock shifted against his thigh.

She’d see. Peter would see. That bloody silly bit of cloth lay between him and total humiliation, and if he reached down to make sure it covered him he’d draw attention to his state, like a pervert hanging around a kids’ playground.

Get down.

That wouldn’t work. He forced himself to think of something really awful. He thought about his dad, slumped on the sofa and wallowing in self-pity. No, he absolutely didn’t want to think of him. Of Graham running through the mud in the park, kicking his football and shouting, “Look at me, Rob! Watch me!” Poor little f*cker. He tried something good but asexual, Cambridge, the incredible antiquity of those ancient buildings, the place he’d be very soon.

Who’d play footer with Graham then?

Graham would be back at school with his mates. He’d be okay. Unless he was moved to a different school because they were kicked out of Sylvia’s tiny house. Where would he end up?

He risked a glance at Lou, who’d bent over to pick up something from a small table of drawing equipment and was revealing a lot of cleavage for a skinny woman.

Shit.

All his good negative thoughts undone.

In a panic, he turned his mind to getting a flat tire in the rain—yes, grabbing the bicycle pump, his chilled hands sliding on the metal, and then that up-down motion—no good. Think about Graham again. That should shrink things.

Lou raised her head and smiled at him—quite friendly and matter-of-fact, as if she knew he had a hard-on and it was no big deal. He shifted his attention to the wall again, looked away quickly from a portrait of a bosomy Restoration beauty, and found a safe blank spot on which to concentrate until they let him take a break.