Strokes on a Canvas Page 8

  “Thank you, my darling Evan.”

  “You’ve nothing to thank me for.” Evan gave Milo a breathless kiss. “I’ve never known anything like it.”

  “In a good way, I hope.”

  “In the most wonderful way imaginable.”

  Milo slid his arms around Evan, holding him like he’d never let go, and as they kissed and talked and made love into the night, Evan hoped he never would. He didn’t care if he got into strife for staying out all night. He’d risk a scolding from Mrs. Grindley. He’d risk all he had to lie in Milo’s arms until the sun rose in the morning sky. Milo loved him and wanted to be with him, and nothing else in the whole world mattered.

  Chapter Ten

  “Are you sure I shouldn’t wear a tie?”

  Evan frowned into the mirror, adjusting his shirt collar for the twentieth time as Milo appeared behind him.

  “You can wear whatever you like, darling. I’m opting for the informal look.”

  “But you always look gorgeous whatever you wear.”

  “Nonsense.” Milo turned Evan to look at him and ruffled his hair. “If anyone’s gorgeous in this relationship, it’s most definitely you.”

  Evan felt the heat rise in his cheeks and the rest of his body, ridiculously excited to hear Milo use the word ‘relationship’. It had been over a month since they’d first made love, and they’d spent as much time as possible since in each other’s company. While it was tempting to spend every minute in bed, relishing Milo’s body and his sexual skills, they forced themselves to go into the outside world from time to time. They’d strolled in the park, visited galleries and museums, enjoyed scrumptious meals in posh restaurants and drinks in less reputable pubs, and Evan had loved every second.

  He’d even met Milo’s parents last week, when Milo had gone to their house to pick up some books, and his mother had been as enchanting as her portrait, while his father was as handsome and charming as his son. They’d taken tea in the delightful walled garden, where delphiniums and peonies grew amongst fruit-laden apple trees, and the Halsteads hadn’t been at all what Evan expected of a wealthy couple in their fifties. They knew all about the latest music—Mrs. Halstead had met Ivor Novello—but they were also well-informed about political matters and sympathetic to the plight of the miners. Evan enjoyed the afternoon enormously, and it was only later that Milo told him his parents were aware of their relationship. He wasn’t entirely shocked, as he knew they’d been accepting of Wyn, and Jeremy before him, but Evan had been thankful for his ignorance. He would have been too scared to speak if he’d known, and he was similarly apprehensive about today’s excursion.

  When Milo had invited Evan to meet some of his friends, he’d agreed straightaway. He was tickled pink Milo thought so much of him that he wanted people to meet him, but when Evan asked about his friends’ names and what they did for a living, Milo’s replies had filled him with trepidation. Their refined names placed them in the upper class, if not the aristocracy, and few of them did what Evan’s father would call a ‘proper job’. Some were artists like Milo, while others were writers and musicians. Milo assured him they weren’t all rich and successful, but Evan had read about some of them in the papers and had even read one or two of their books.

  Evan was also wary of meeting more artists after the unveiling of his portrait at the Royal Academy. He’d been so excited about attending the event, and for the most part he’d enjoyed it, but he hadn’t been able to ignore the haughty looks and belittling words he’d received from some of the other guests when Milo’s attention had been elsewhere. Even though he was wearing a suit he’d borrowed from Milo and his hair was as neat as it had been in his life, those aesthetes and sophisticates had seen him for the outsider he was.

  As Milo hurried him down the stairs and onto the street, Evan thought how different their lives had been up to now. Milo and his friends had gone to Eton and Harrow, mixing with future politicians and peers, while Evan had learned to read and write at the village school. Evan tried to conceal his educational limitations and had worked hard to broaden his cultural knowledge, but he couldn’t hide his working-class roots completely. There was his accent for a start. He attempted to lengthen his vowels and not drop his h’s, but he couldn’t pass for the sort of privileged person with whom Milo socialized. Evan’s heart pounded at the mere thought of saying hello to his acquaintances.

  “Do you really think this is a good idea, Milo? What if your friends don’t like me? What if they—”

  “They will love you.” Milo took Evan by the shoulders, his gaze compassionate but firm. “Just because they grew up with money—and not all of them did—doesn’t mean they’re snobs. I wouldn’t be friends with them if they were. They take people as they find them, whatever their background, and they will find you to be the brightest, kindest, most beautiful man they’ve ever met. So, will you please stop worrying?”

  “If you put it like that, I don’t suppose I have much choice.”

  “Quite right. Now, let’s get a move on. Bertie gets in such a flap if we’re not all there when tea is served.”

  He wasn’t greatly reassured by the prospect of a man called Bertie getting in a flap, but when they arrived at his rooms in Chelsea, Evan was relieved to find that Bertie seemed a perfectly normal fellow. Evan was also glad he hadn’t put on a tie, as Bertie was informal verging on scruffy, in his baggy trousers and rumpled shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was well-spoken with impeccable manners, but Bertie welcomed Evan into his home as if he’d known him for years. The rest of Milo’s friends were sitting in the drawing room, and they stood to introduce themselves. Some of them looked curious as they each shook Evan’s hand, and some were even a little flirtatious, but not one of them was condescending, and Evan felt less on edge as he sat next to Milo.

  A man named Selby with curly brown hair and a country estate in Berkshire, according to Milo, turned to Evan with a shy smile.

  “What is it you do, Evan? Are you an artist like Milo?”

  “I’m afraid not. I work in a grocer’s.”

  “A grocery shop?” Selby looked unexpectedly impressed. “That must be frightfully hard work. I’d be hopeless at dealing with all those people every day.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true. And I could never write history books like you.”

  Selby’s freckled cheeks blushed a timid pink. “I see Milo has been telling you about us.”

  “To tell you the truth, I was a bit scared of meeting you all.”

  “Scared of us?” A cellist named Finlay laughed from his seat by the fireplace. “Milo, what have you been saying to the poor man?”

  “I gave him the barest of details. Most of them good. It’s up to you to prove you’re not a load of pretentious toffs.”

  “Milo!” Evan nudged him sharply in the arm. “Don’t say things like that.”

  “Evan, dear, we artistic types are very hard to offend.” Finlay stretched his arm comfortably across the back of his chair. “Unless you are a critic for The Times, of course.”

  Laughter rippled around the room as Bertie walked in with a fully laden silver tray. Evan expected a maid to follow, but their host poured milk and tea into cups already set on a table, then served cheese and cucumber sandwiches. Milo took a sandwich and looked it over.

  “Did you make these yourself, Bertie?”

  “I did indeed. I am capable of making a sandwich, you know.”

  Bertie put down the empty serving plate. Then Evan nearly spat out his tea as Bertie perched on Finlay’s knee and draped an arm around his shoulder. He’d been shocked by the men kissing at the club, but such intimacy seemed more scandalous in a respectable drawing room. Milo rubbed Evan’s back as he almost coughed himself into a choking fit.

  “It’s all right, Evan. We’re among friends here.” Milo leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. “Relax and enjoy yourself.”

  Evan took another gulp of tea and did as he was told. He listened and laughed as Milo’s fri
ends talked about all manner of things. They discussed the latest exhibitions and plays, as Evan might have predicted, but they also talked about sport—the rather dashing Jacob was an avid Tottenham Hotspur fan—and politics too, as several of them worked in government departments to finance their artistic ventures. Then William, a painter of landscapes and heir to an earldom, if not a great fortune, mentioned that his parents were in town. William turned to Evan, who had so far been happy to play the fascinated spectator.

  “I hear you’ve met Milo’s parents, Evan. Aren’t they absolute sweethearts?”

  If Evan had been drinking tea, he undoubtedly would have choked on it again.

  “I-I suppose they are. They were very kind to me.”

  “I’m sure they were. They’re kind to everyone, aren’t they, Milo? They’ve certainly helped me through some difficult times.” William smiled mischievously at Milo. “I don’t know how they got a bounder like you for a son.”

  “Why thank you, William. Do remind me to compliment you sometime.”

  “I will, my dear. I will.” William laughed and patted the knee of the fair-haired man sitting next to him, whose name was Alan or Adam—Evan wasn’t sure which. He was doing his best to remember the men’s names, and when they began to take their leave at the end of the afternoon, Evan thought he’d just about learned them all.

  As he followed Milo out of the front door and thanked Bertie for his hospitality, Evan hoped he’d be less nervous next time he met Milo’s friends, and feel able to join their conversation. He supposed he was getting ahead of himself, assuming there would be a next time, but as Milo slipped an arm around his shoulder in an outwardly innocent but thrillingly intimate way, Evan was as sure as he could be that he’d meet Bertie and the others again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sandy bounced onto Evan’s bed. He’d been like a toddler with a new toy since that afternoon, when he’d met Milo properly for the first time. After meeting Milo’s friends and parents, Evan had thought he should introduce Milo to someone he knew. And besides, he wanted his lover to meet his best friend. Sandy had been there for him since he’d moved to London, listening when he needed to talk and never judging him for liking men. He’d put up with Evan droning on about Milo for months, so the least he could do was to let them get acquainted.

  They’d been to the Corner House on the Strand, and Milo had treated them to a slap-up lunch of melting Welsh rarebit followed by apple charlotte and cream. Milo had been on sparkling form and Sandy hadn’t stopped talking about him since.

  “You’re a lucky man, Evan. Milo is such a nice bloke. Handsome and clever, and funny as well. And he’s crazy about you.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose.”

  “You said it.” Sandy chuckled. “Seriously, though, thanks for inviting me. It was good to meet him after all this time.”

  “You mean after me going on about him all this time.”

  “Well, I understand why you went on about him now.”

  Evan had been relieved and delighted that Sandy and Milo had hit it off. In fact, he’d struggled to get a word in once they’d started nattering. “I’m glad you like him, Sandy. It wouldn’t seem right if you two didn’t get on.”

  “I didn’t know you held my opinion so dear.”

  “Of course I do. You’re my best friend. You and Milo are the most important men in my life.”

  “You soft so-and-so.” Sandy punched Evan teasingly on the arm. Then he sat for a while, running his finger in slow circles on the quilt. “Milo really does make you happy, doesn’t he?”

  “Happier than I ever thought possible.”

  “Why is that, do you think?”

  “I know it sounds soppy, but I reckon we’re meant to be together.”

  “You don’t think…” Sandy continued to make patterns on the patchwork quilt. “You don’t think it’s because you’re both blokes?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, do you think two men together are happier than a boy and a girl?”

  “What are you on about? Are things not going well with you and Marge?”

  Sandy shook his head. “Nor Clarrie, nor Ada, nor Lily before that.”

  “You just haven’t met the right girl yet.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I should try something new. Like you and Milo. Evan, do you think Milo might match me up with one of his friends?”

  “Bloody hell, Sandy. What’s brought this on? You never said you liked men before.”

  Sandy shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  “But I’ve seen the way you look at women. You can’t keep your eyes off them. And you’d have known a long time before now if you were that way.”

  “Some men like both. I’ve heard about them.”

  “That’s true, and if I genuinely thought you liked blokes I’d find you the finest, handsomest man I could. But you don’t really like men, do you?”

  “I don’t know.” Sandy rubbed his hand across his eyes. “I want what you and Milo have. I want to meet a person I can’t live without, who makes me happy to be alive. I’ve never met a girl who makes me feel anything like that.”

  “Like I said, you’ve not met the right girl yet. Be honest, Sandy. When you’re enjoying yourself on your own at night, which film star are you thinking about? John Gilbert or Marion Davies?”

  “That’s not fair. You know I love all her films.”

  “And I know you ripped a picture of her out of the paper to ogle while you’re having your fun. Sandy, you don’t like men. Accept it and be happy. Your life will be a lot more straightforward than mine.”

  Sandy slouched back against the wall. “I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”

  “No.” Evan smiled. “You want to be in love, and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’ll happen, Sandy. Just be patient, and I bet in five years’ time, you’ll be married with a couple of kids who’ll be driving you mad and calling me Uncle Evan.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. Now, come here, you daft thing.” Evan pulled Sandy into a hug. “You are going to be a brilliant husband and father one day.”

  Sandy laid his head on Evan’s shoulder. “You’re such a good friend, Evan.”

  “And so are you. There’s not many friends who’d put up with a bloke mooning over another man.”

  Evan stroked Sandy’s hair as they nestled against each other and was about to kiss him chastely on the cheek, when there was a loud knock at the door. They both froze as another knock rapped against the door, followed by Mrs. Grindley’s irascible voice.

  “Mr. Calver? Are you in there? I want a word with you.”

  Evan and Sandy looked at each other, then spluttered into laughter.

  “Blimey, Evan, what have you done now?”

  “God knows.” Evan got up from the bed and straightened his hair with his fingers. “I probably forgot to clean the sink last time I had a wash.”

  “You dirty blighter.” Sandy grinned. “You’ll be on cleaning duty again.”

  “And you can flamin’ well help me if I am.” Evan chuckled as he opened the door. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Grindley?”

  Their landlady’s face was as stony as he’d ever seen it, and Evan tried to wipe the smile from his face.

  “Is everything all right, Mrs. Grindley? Is there a problem?”

  “There most certainly is, Mr. Calver. You will come down to the dining room immediately.” Mrs. Grindley peered past Evan to where Sandy was sitting on the bed, and her look changed from one of coldness to barely suppressed disdain. “I might have known you’d be in there, Mr. Wallace. You’ll come downstairs now with Mr. Calver.”

  Evan frowned as Mrs. Grindley turned and stalked away across the landing.

  “What do you think she wants, Sandy?”

  “She’s certainly got a bee in her bonnet about something. Maybe somebody’s broken one of her precious porcelain vases.”

  “You’re probably right. It
doesn’t take much to rile her. We’d best go and see what heinous crime has been committed.”

  They went downstairs and were still giggling over the misdeeds they might be accused of when they ambled into the dining room. Mrs. Grindley was over by the window, standing straight as a poker and looking more forbidding than the strictest headmistress. Evan had never seen her look so grave and guessed that something had been stolen.

  “What is it, Mrs. Grindley? Neither of us has done anything wrong, I swear.”

  Mrs. Grindley pursed her lips, as though stopping herself from saying something unbecoming to a lady.

  “Mr. Calver, Mr. Wallace, I want you both out of this house by the end of the day.”

  Evan stood open-mouthed, unable to believe what he’d heard.

  “But why, Mrs. Grindley? What have we done? We both pay our board on time. You’ve no reason to—”

  “I have every reason, Mr. Calver, and unless you want me to take those reasons to the police, I suggest you pack your bags and leave.”

  “But, Mrs. Grindley,” Sandy sounded as shocked and confused as Evan, “we’ve done nothing against the law.”

  “I have it on very good authority that you have, and I will not have persons of immoral character under my roof.”

  A fearful heat surged through Evan’s body as he realized just what they were being accused of, but Sandy continued regardless.

  “Immoral character? What are you talking about? And on whose authority, exactly?”

  “That is my business, but suffice it to say, I will not provide refuge for those who go against God’s law. All the evenings this one spent with his ‘friend’. And the nights too. I can’t bear to think about it. And you, Mr. Wallace, are worse than him. Pulling the wool over our eyes, pretending you were courting all those girls. It’s disgusting, it is.”