Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(76)

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 when I can have you?

But it hadn't come. Cliff drove his fists into the pockets of his bathrobe. Hell, he thought with self-directed disgust. Who would've thought that he'd be wearing the sodding shoes of insecurity? He—Cliff Hegarty and not Gerry DeVitt—was the one who'd always said that permanent fidelity was nothing but a pit stop on the road to the grave. He was the one who'd preached about the dangers of seeing the same tired face at breakfast every morning, of finding the same tired body in bed every night. He'd always said that after a few years of that, only the knowledge of having had a secret encounter with someone new on the side—someone who liked the thrill of the chase, the pleasures afforded by anonymity, or the excitement of deception—would stimulate a bloke's body into performing for a long-term lover. That's just the way it was, he'd always said. That was life.

But Gerry wasn't supposed to believe that Cliff had actually meant what he said. Flaming hell, no. Gerry was supposed to say with sardonic resignation, “Right, mate. You keep on talking, ‘cause that's what you're good at, and talk is just talk.” The last thing Cliff had ever expected was that Gerry might take his words to heart. Yet with a stomach quickly turning sour, Cliff forced himself to admit that Gerry must have done exactly that.

He wanted to say belligerently, Look, you want to end it, Ger? But he was too frightened at what his lover's answer might be. He realised in a flash of clarity that no matter how much he talked about roads to the grave, he didn't really want to split from Gerry. Not just because of these digs in Jaywick Sands, a few feet from the beach, where Cliff liked to roam, nor because of the old speedboat that Gerry had lovingly restored and in which the two of them roared across the sea in the summer, and not because Gerry had been talking about an Australian holiday during the months when wind rattled the house like a Siberian cyclone. Cliff didn't want to split with Gerry because … well, there was something bloody comforting in being hooked up with a bloke who said he believed in permanent fidelity … even if one never got round to mentioning that particular point to him.

Which is why Cliff said with far more indifference than he actually felt, “You looking for a Mexican boy these days, Ger? Got a taste for dark meat instead of white?”

Gerry turned from the window at that. He set his cup on the table. “You been keeping count? Want to tell me why?”

Cliff grinned as he raised his hands in mock defence. “No way. Hey, this i'n't about me. We been together long enough for me to know when somethin's on your mind. All's I'm asking is do you want to talk about it?”

Gerry side-stepped and crossed the kitchen to the fridge. He opened it. He began to gather the ingredients for his usual breakfast, placing four eggs into a bowl and sliding four bangers out of their wrapper.

“You cheesed off about something?” Cliff reached for the tie of his bathrobe nervously. He retied it and returned his hands to his pockets. “Okay, I know I mouthed off nasty when you cancelled our Costa Rica holiday, but I thought we'd set ourselfs straight about that. I know the pier job's a big one for you, and along with that house renovation. … What I'm saying's that I know there hasn't been enough work in the past and now there is and you want to take the pickin's and you can't take time off. I understand. So if you been cheesed off about what I said—”