The Gilded Madonna, Garrick Jones [best fiction novels txt] 📗

he’d already been married once, and was having the longest engagement known to man with another woman, we’d cut back our shenanigans to maybe once every few months, even though we’d still continued to see each other a few times a week at the pub, or when I went for a swim. We’d been friends since childhood and continued to be mates now we were both adults—I respected his boundaries and never made the first move.

“I got a message you’d called while I was away?”

“Oh, yes, sorry, Clyde. I’d forgotten you were in Melbourne and then when your answering service picked up I felt too embarrassed to hang up on her, so I just said to say I’d called. How was it?”

“Melbourne? Fantastic. I had the best time—”

“Your page two in the Mirror was spot on, Clyde. Everyone was talking about it all afternoon.”

“What, you mean it was published?”

“Yesterday, my friend. We all agreed it’s something needed to be said but no one wants to talk about.”

“Well, blow me down,” I said. “A page two … that’s really moving up in the world.”

“I called to tell you it’s off.”

“What’s off?”

“Me and Connie.”

“Jesus mate, what happened?”

“She caught me at it.”

“What—?”

“Don’t panic. She’s not going to the cops or anything. I made the mistake of thinking a career senior nurse wouldn’t have an idea, but she told me she’d already suspected, and if we wanted to continue, she’d turn a blind eye as long as I didn’t bring anyone home, was discreet, and wore a raincoat.”

I shook my head. That was the last thing I expected to hear. “But?”

“But, I couldn’t do it, Clyde. You’d think it would be every bloke’s dream for a man in my position, but I simply couldn’t. You see—”

I was a detective. It’s what I did. I picked up on clues.

“The guy she caught you with … it’s serious?”

“Ah, Jesus, Clyde. How do I tell you? That’s why I rang. I wanted to meet and tell you to your face—it’s been going on ever since you and Harry went to Tasmania in the middle of the year.”

“So it’s obviously someone I know. But unless you’re fucking Sam or Billy, why should I care?”

“It’s Harley, Clyde.”

Everyone knows the old saying, “taking the wind out of someone’s sails”. Harley Yaxley, the son of the local grocer, the boy with the dick of death, had been the only other regular partner I’d had in my stables in all the years I’d been “managing” my off-and-on open relationship with Sam.

“I—”

“I know you’re going to be angry, Clyde, but when you got together with Harry and then closed the door on both me and Harley …”

“I’m not angry, Craig. Honestly, mate, far from it. In fact I’m delighted. A bit pissed off I never got to do it with both of you, but I wanted Harley for myself, and you were so off and on, about—”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“But …?”

“There’s no but.”

“I’ve known you since we were six years old, Clyde. I know your buts better than anyone else.”

“No really, I am happy. But, yes there is one thing … you’re ten years older than him, Craig.”

“I can keep up, Clyde, no need to worry on that score.”

“And?”

“You’re a filthy bastard, you know that, Smith?”

I laughed.

“Remember those cobwebs I told you about after that threesome with you and Billy? Well, let’s just say young Mr. Yaxley seems keen to remedy that situation.”

“You never used to like doing that too much, Craig.”

“Only because you were too quick off the mark yourself, Clyde. So selfish …”

“It’s my middle name.”

“No it’s not, I know you don’t have one.”

“Makes it easy to make one up to suit the situation.”

We both laughed, our arms around each other. It did feel a bit strange, although I was happy, if not a little wistful over the loss of the sexual relationship I’d had with both of them. I felt like a matchmaker, the in-between person who was the pivot point for arranged matches. Sam and Billy, and now Craig and Harley.

“There’s more though, Clyde,” Craig said, having returned to my side after retrieving his smokes from where he’d left them. We both lit up and I waited.

“He’s moving in with me.”

*****

It was close to seven o’clock when I opened my front door. I’d smelled something wonderful floating down the stairs the moment I’d walked through the entrance to my block of flats.

“Hello?” I called out. No one answered.

Something was in the oven. I walked into the kitchen and opened the door a few inches. It was a large Italian frittata, a robust, hearty omelette, covered with one of my Pyrex oven dish lids. Next to it was a tray of cooked sausages. I noticed the oven was turned down as low as it could be without the gas going out.

“Is that you?” I called out.

“Yes, it’s me. I stole the spare key from under your pot of basil on the back landing. I hope you don’t mind.”

I followed his voice to my bedroom as I threw off my singlet, hopping on the way as I slipped out of each of my shoes. Harry was lying on my bed, his hands behind his neck, his feet together, but his knees splayed open. Of course, he was naked.

“Now that’s what I call a morning surprise. What are you doing here?” I asked as I threw off my clothes.

“Wanted to speak to you early … hey, where you off to?”

“Shower,” I said. “I had a swim but I’ve been running. I’m all salty and smelly.”

“Get your arse here, Smith. I like salty and smelly.”

I saluted and so did my dick. I tripped while trying to get my swimmers off and fell on top of him, but he rolled me in his arms and attacked my mouth with his own.

*****

Twenty minutes later, still not showered, I found myself sitting at the kitchen table, clad only in my swimming trunks. Harry wore my cotton dressing gown, but hadn’t bothered to tie it;