Not The Done Thing
Title: Not The Done Thing
Pairing: James/Jeremy
Notes: I never believed I'd write this pairing!
Not The Done Thing
Monday - 8.41pm
“May,” James answers curtly. He’s lying on his back on the uncomfortable bed in an atrociously decorated hotel room.
“James! It’s me!” Jeremy’s voice thunders enthusiastically down the phone line.
“Jeremy - how’s things?”
“Great, yeah. The Hamster and company arrived today, so the house is overrun with children and dogs. It truly is a madhouse.”
“I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun,” James says, as genuinely as he can.
“Oh, I’m sure,” Jeremy says sarcastically. “I’ve already got a sore throat from yelling at them all. The kids aren’t so bad, but trying to keep Richard in check is like trying to take a corner in a Smart city car.” James half grins at the analogy.
“Give him a wheel and make him work off all that excess energy.”
“Are you all right? You sound a bit knackered, mate.”
“I’m fine,” James says, cursing his poor acting ability. “Fine, really. It’s a bit tiring, all this driving around.”
“Frogs wearing you out?” Jeremy asks, and James can hear the grin in his tone.
“It wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t so French.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the part of France we’re in - they’re really, really French. Not your Parisian English-haters, but proper French gits who get up to buy bread from the patisserie every morning. I’ve met one person who speaks English so far.”
Jeremy’s laugh on the other end of the phone is oddly comforting, but causes James’ chest to tighten painfully. “Never mind, mate. Only another five and a half weeks to go. How’s the Jag running?”
James perks up slightly at that. “Like a dream. Couldn’t be better.”
“Touch wood,” Jeremy warns him. There’s a clattering sound in the background and then the muffled sound of high-pitched voices. “Listen, James, I have to go - have a good night, ok?”
“Will do,” James promises, although he’s careful to cross his fingers. “Night.”
The phone goes dead in his hand a fraction of a second later, and he looks at it gloomily until the backlight fades away. Looking around, he reaches over to the pine bedside table and raps his knuckles on it. At least he can try and follow one of Jeremy’s pieces of advice.
Tuesday - 5.49pm
“Jeremy?”
“It’s me - how did you guess?”
“I didn’t,” James says dryly. “I’ve learned how to activate caller ID on my mobile.”
“When you say learned, do you mean that some guy from the production team did it for you?” Jeremy asks obnoxiously, amusement colouring his tone.
“Well, yes,” James admits. “How are you?”
“Sunburnt,” Jeremy replies succinctly. “And you?”
“I’m healthily pale.”
“You know, I’ve noticed that for being on a wine-tasting trip, you sound decidedly un-drunk,” Jeremy observes.
“That’s because I am the designated driver,” James sounds patiently, trying not to sound too fed up. “I have to stick to Perrier.”
“Ugh. Can’t that Oz bloke take over the driving for a bit?”
“Well, he hasn’t driven a car in about ten years. So I’m rather reluctant to let him behind the wheel, actually. And then there’s the fact that he is almost constantly under the influence.”
“Bit of an issue, obviously.”
“Yes.” There’s a slight pause, in which he can hear Jeremy’s breathing down the line. “How’s your day been?”
“Well, we went into Douglas today for some shopping, and took the kids to the fair. Vomit count: two. Not the worst record, but not the best, either.”
“I take it you didn’t go on any of the rides?” James teases, knowing Jeremy’s aversion to any kind of fast-moving vehicle that he isn’t driving.
“You must be joking.”
“It always baffles me how a man so prone to motion-sickness can be a motoring journalist.”
“I make up for it with my wit and charm,” Jeremy says.
“And your modesty, of course.”
“Of course,” Jeremy says with a laugh. “How’s France? The cheese-eating surrender monkeys still getting up your nose?”
“Do you have to ask?” James snorts. “To be fair, they weren’t too bad today.”
“What’s wrong, then?” Jeremy asks. James winces. He’d thought he’d hidden it better this time.
“Nothing, really. Just the usual teething problems you get with any TV programme.”
“Oz?” Jeremy asks, hitting the nail on the head immediately.
James sinks his head into his free hand, taking a deep breath before entering. “He’s all right, really. We just haven’t really … bonded. Yet.”
“Well, it was never going to be as fun as working with me. And Richard.”
“How is Shorty?”
“Hyperactive. As ever. We’re going to try fishing tomorrow.”
“Well, good luck,” James says, feeling a small knot beginning to form in the bottom of his stomach.
“Thanks,” Jeremy says, and then there is a period of not-quite-awkward silence. James glances at his watch and knows that soon he’ll have to go down and pretend to be having fun in front of the cameras for dinner, but somehow, even though the conversation has stalled, he doesn’t want to hang up.
“Well, I suppose I’d better go,” he forces himself to say, when the silence has stretched on a few moments too long.
“I suppose I should too. Take care, James.”
“You too,” James says quietly, and then puts the phone down. He slumps forward, scrubbing a hand through his hair, and then stands, preparing himself for the night ahead.
Wednesday - 9.23pm
“James - how are you?”
“Boiling. My room is like a sauna and apparently the people here haven’t heard of air conditioning yet,” James replies grumpily.
“Bad day?” Jeremy asks, sympathetically.
“Pretty awful,” James says, not sure whether to burden Jeremy with his tale of woe or not.
“Want to talk about it?” Jeremy offers sincerely, making the decision for him.
“Oz Clarke is an absolute idiot. He’s worse-tempered than Richard, only he doesn’t forget about it after two minutes. He’s also more arrogant and stubborn than you, but in an un-amusing fashion. He has no idea about quality cars, and if he criticises my driving once more I’m going to swing for him.”
There’s a moment of shocked silence, presumably caused by his uncharacteristic outburst. “So, you’re a little stressed,” Jeremy says eventually.
James laughs hollowly. “You could say that. I’ve been waiting for you to call all day.” He grimaces as soon as he has finished his sentence, unsure how that slipped out.
“Have you?”
James dithers, then says honestly, “Yes. They’re keeping me sane, if you must know. I never thought I’d see the day when Jeremy Clarkson was keeping me sane, but there you go. I must have been an idiot to agree to do this.”
“At least it’s not daytime TV,” Jeremy says, a hopeful tone in his voice. James laughs despite his dismal mood, partly to please Jeremy.
“Sorry to unload on you, mate.”
“Anytime, James, you know that.” Jeremy hesitates slightly and then continues. “You know, I’m having fun with Rich and everything, but it’s not the same as it would be if you were here. He’s rubbish at fishing, for one thing.”
James closes his eyes in contentment. “I wish I was there. But I am, unfortunately, contractually obliged to stay here.”
“James, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about-“ The sound of a crash sounds through the line, interrupting whatever it was that Jeremy was about to say. “What the-? Richard? Francie? What’s happened?” There are a few muffled voices that James can’t quite make out, and then suddenly there’s a new voice on the phone.
“James, are you still there?”
“Richard? What’s going on?”
“Nothing serious, don’t worry. Katya managed to drop a pile of plates on the floor, and she’s cut her knee. Doctor Clarkson ran to the rescue. How are things, mate?”
“They’re, um, they’re good.”
“Jeremy said you’d been a bit down,” Richard says. “Jag not acting up, is it?”
“No - Richard, is Jeremy back yet? He was going to say something.”
“Oh - hang on, I’ll fetch him. Hold on, yeah?”
There’s a thud as the phone is laid down, and then James is left in silence. He squeezes his eyes shut and wonders what it is Jeremy was about to say. The older man had sounded serious, which was a rarity, and James is torn between feeling nervous and excited. He hopes, beyond hope, that what Jeremy was going to say is that he feels the same way as him, that the strange spark they’ve been feeling between them recently is actually real, not just in his imagination; but he’s terrified that Jeremy is going to say that his feelings aren’t reciprocated.
“James?” Jeremy’s voice sounds once more.
“Yes?” James replies, voice embarrassingly high-pitched.
“Sorry about that, Katya cut her leg.”
“Richard said. Listen … what were you about to say?”
“About to say? Well, er … sorry mate, it’s gone completely out of my head!” Jeremy says, but his voice has upped in pitch too. “It can’t have been very interesting, eh?” he finishes weakly, and the irritation that has been building up in James all through his miserable day forces itself to the fore.
“Christ, Jeremy, don’t chicken out now. Why can’t you just say something? Instead of keeping me in suspense. It all hangs on you, mate, I’m not the one with a bloody wife and kids … oh fuck it, Jeremy. I can’t deal with this tonight.” He slams the phone down in a fit of anger, feeling shaken and ill after doing so.
Oh Christ, he thought, running his hands through his sweaty hair and sinking back onto the bed, how had things come to this?
Thursday - 11.20pm
“Jamesh?” Jeremy’s voice is slurred, and James’ head makes a hollow thump as it hits the headboard.
“Jeremy.”
“James, I’m shorry,” Jeremy says, then hiccups. “I didn’t mean … I want to tell you what I wash going to shay. Lasht night.”
“You’re drunk, Jeremy. I’d rather we had this conversation when you were sober. This way, you can just forget about it afterwards and deny all knowledge.”
“Jamesh!” Jeremy squeals indignantly. “I wouldn’t do such a thing!”
“What are you doing?” A hissed voice sounds tinnily in the background. “You’re going to wake the kids.”
“I’m speaking to James,” Jeremy explains loudly.
“Jeremy, go to bed,” James says wearily.
“No, James. I’m going to tell you. About you, an’ me. We get on well, you and I,” Jeremy says, matter-of-factly. “Chalk and cheese, but we’re well-suited.”
James is actually beginning to feel rather hopeful, and waits for Jeremy to continue. Unfortunately, nothing more comes, aside from what sounds ominously like a snore. Then there is a sort of thump, and a voice saying, “Christ, you weigh a bloody ton.”
“Hello?”
“James?” The voice turns out to be Richard. “James, Jeremy’s passed out. He is mortifyingly pissed.”
“So it would seem,” James says, not even bothering, this time, to disguise the hurt and anger in his tone.
Richard seems to take a breath before speaking, rather hesitantly. “James, this is probably none of my business, but … I think I know what’s going on between you and Jeremy.”
“Perhaps you could enlighten me,” James almost spits down the line, knowing he’s being unfair on his friend but unable to stop himself.
“Well … give me a minute, James. I’m a bloke. I don’t know how to talk about this stuff.”
“Give it a try.”
“All right!” Richard’s voice lowers almost to a whisper. “I think Jeremy likes you.”
James realises that this has to be the most bizarre conversation he’s had in a long time, but somehow he’s beyond caring. He’s been pussyfooting around the issue with Jeremy for long enough.
“He doesn’t show it very well,” he huffs.
“To be fair, mate, he’s phoned you every single night I’ve been here. And I’m guessing he called you a couple of times before that, right?” James has to admit that Richard is right. “Add to that the fact that all weekend he’s not shut up about you, and that he’s started up a hate campaign against Oz Clarke, and I think you’ll find his behaviour goes beyond a normal mate caring about his friend, yeah?”
James can’t see Richard, but he has a feeling the younger man’s cheeks are bright red. “He’s married. That’s the thing,” he says, feebly.
“Oh Christ, James. I hope that you realise you owe me a lot of drinks for actually standing here and talking about this with you. Jeremy gets quite chatty when he’s drunk, and I’ve had to be his agony aunt for half the night, and now I’m yours. So I’m going to say this once, and then you’re going to wake up and smell the coffee, ok?”
“All right,” James agrees, knowing to obey Hammond when he takes on that tone of voice.
“Jeremy’s not sleeping with Francie anymore.” His words are rushed and mixed together.
“What?”
“You bloody heard me. Listen, he’s not about to get a divorce or anything, but he’s on the market. And so are you. And you clearly like one another, so the only thing stopping you doing anything is sheer pig-headed idiocy.”
“Oh,” James says.
“Uncle Richard?” It appears that their conversation has once again been interrupted.
“Emily - what are you doing out of bed?” Richard asks.
“I needed a glass of water. Why is my dad on the floor?”
“He fancied a nap, that’s all.”
“You mean he’s drunk,” Emily says shrewdly.
“Well, yes. Off his face, actually. Don’t worry, I’ll put him to bed in a minute. Why don’t you go into the kitchen, and I’ll get you a drink in a second, ok sweetie?” There are a few indistinguishable murmurs and then Richard comes back on the phone. “James, I have to go. Think about what I’ve just said, all right? Although never bring it up in front of me again. I have to go, ok? Take care.”
“You too - thanks, Richard.”
“Don’t mention it. Seriously,” Richard warns, and then hangs up. Dazed, sleepy, and more than a little shell-shocked, James does the same, and then throws his mobile in an unusually haphazard fashion onto the bedside table. His mood, which has been terrible all day, has suddenly lifted.
Friday - 7.46pm
He is waiting by the phone in his room, having begged off dinner early - not that Oz would have noticed, as he was too busy making lewd comments to the pretty camera technician they have with them. He answers halfway through the first ring, not stopping to think whether he’ll look too keen.
“Hello?”
“James, it’s me,” Jeremy says, sounding more nervous and unsure than James has ever heard him before.
“I know.” There’s a bit of a pause, but James has learned, over the past few days, not to be fazed by them. “How are you feeling?”
“Mild headache,” Jeremy tells him. “Hamster told me about last night; my phoning you …”
“Did he? You were quite drunk.”
“I know. Sorry. I just … I needed to say a few things, and thought I might need some Dutch courage to help. I may have taken the idea a little too far.”
“I’d say so,” James says, gently and amusedly, trying to relax Jeremy. It’s unnerving to speak to the man when he’s not being his usual brash, confident self.
“Richard told me what he’d told you, as well, although he looked rather uncomfortable doing so. I think I might have to hold back on the height and teeth-whitening jokes for a while, as a sort-of thank you.”
“What did you think, about what he said?”
“I thought that a lot of it was true. All of it, in fact. I mean, he was right, James. Is this enough? Am I making sense?”
“You’re making about as much sense as I’d expect, Jez. If it helps, I feel the same way. But, like Hammond said, it doesn’t really do to talk about it, does it?”
“It’s not really in our nature,” Jeremy agreed, some of the old confidence slipping back into his tone. “Still, I think I should probably say something about it, just to make up for my drunken ramblings last night. So … I miss you, James. I wish you were here, or I was there, even if it is France.”
That strikes James as one of the nicest things Jeremy has ever said, and he smiles happily on the other end of the line, feeling the ache in his chest and the knot in his stomach, both of which have been haunting him for some time, slowly dissipate. “Me too,” he says softly.
“James, when you get back from your ridiculous trip,” Jeremy says, quickly going back to his usual self, “I’m going to take you out for dinner.” His tone is matter-of-fact and final.
“How very romantic of you,” James comments. “You certainly know how to ask a man out on a date.”
“Well, it’s my first time, but I’m a quick learner,” Jeremy tells him, and James’ smile now is bigger than it has been in a while.
That night, James doesn’t hang the phone up at all. In fact, it isn’t until well into the early hours of the next morning that the connection between the two phones is severed, with a promise to keep in contact every day, and that at the end of his trip, Jeremy will be waiting for him.
James couldn’t be happier.
Fin
Pairing: James/Jeremy
Notes: I never believed I'd write this pairing!
Not The Done Thing
Monday - 8.41pm
“May,” James answers curtly. He’s lying on his back on the uncomfortable bed in an atrociously decorated hotel room.
“James! It’s me!” Jeremy’s voice thunders enthusiastically down the phone line.
“Jeremy - how’s things?”
“Great, yeah. The Hamster and company arrived today, so the house is overrun with children and dogs. It truly is a madhouse.”
“I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun,” James says, as genuinely as he can.
“Oh, I’m sure,” Jeremy says sarcastically. “I’ve already got a sore throat from yelling at them all. The kids aren’t so bad, but trying to keep Richard in check is like trying to take a corner in a Smart city car.” James half grins at the analogy.
“Give him a wheel and make him work off all that excess energy.”
“Are you all right? You sound a bit knackered, mate.”
“I’m fine,” James says, cursing his poor acting ability. “Fine, really. It’s a bit tiring, all this driving around.”
“Frogs wearing you out?” Jeremy asks, and James can hear the grin in his tone.
“It wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t so French.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the part of France we’re in - they’re really, really French. Not your Parisian English-haters, but proper French gits who get up to buy bread from the patisserie every morning. I’ve met one person who speaks English so far.”
Jeremy’s laugh on the other end of the phone is oddly comforting, but causes James’ chest to tighten painfully. “Never mind, mate. Only another five and a half weeks to go. How’s the Jag running?”
James perks up slightly at that. “Like a dream. Couldn’t be better.”
“Touch wood,” Jeremy warns him. There’s a clattering sound in the background and then the muffled sound of high-pitched voices. “Listen, James, I have to go - have a good night, ok?”
“Will do,” James promises, although he’s careful to cross his fingers. “Night.”
The phone goes dead in his hand a fraction of a second later, and he looks at it gloomily until the backlight fades away. Looking around, he reaches over to the pine bedside table and raps his knuckles on it. At least he can try and follow one of Jeremy’s pieces of advice.
Tuesday - 5.49pm
“Jeremy?”
“It’s me - how did you guess?”
“I didn’t,” James says dryly. “I’ve learned how to activate caller ID on my mobile.”
“When you say learned, do you mean that some guy from the production team did it for you?” Jeremy asks obnoxiously, amusement colouring his tone.
“Well, yes,” James admits. “How are you?”
“Sunburnt,” Jeremy replies succinctly. “And you?”
“I’m healthily pale.”
“You know, I’ve noticed that for being on a wine-tasting trip, you sound decidedly un-drunk,” Jeremy observes.
“That’s because I am the designated driver,” James sounds patiently, trying not to sound too fed up. “I have to stick to Perrier.”
“Ugh. Can’t that Oz bloke take over the driving for a bit?”
“Well, he hasn’t driven a car in about ten years. So I’m rather reluctant to let him behind the wheel, actually. And then there’s the fact that he is almost constantly under the influence.”
“Bit of an issue, obviously.”
“Yes.” There’s a slight pause, in which he can hear Jeremy’s breathing down the line. “How’s your day been?”
“Well, we went into Douglas today for some shopping, and took the kids to the fair. Vomit count: two. Not the worst record, but not the best, either.”
“I take it you didn’t go on any of the rides?” James teases, knowing Jeremy’s aversion to any kind of fast-moving vehicle that he isn’t driving.
“You must be joking.”
“It always baffles me how a man so prone to motion-sickness can be a motoring journalist.”
“I make up for it with my wit and charm,” Jeremy says.
“And your modesty, of course.”
“Of course,” Jeremy says with a laugh. “How’s France? The cheese-eating surrender monkeys still getting up your nose?”
“Do you have to ask?” James snorts. “To be fair, they weren’t too bad today.”
“What’s wrong, then?” Jeremy asks. James winces. He’d thought he’d hidden it better this time.
“Nothing, really. Just the usual teething problems you get with any TV programme.”
“Oz?” Jeremy asks, hitting the nail on the head immediately.
James sinks his head into his free hand, taking a deep breath before entering. “He’s all right, really. We just haven’t really … bonded. Yet.”
“Well, it was never going to be as fun as working with me. And Richard.”
“How is Shorty?”
“Hyperactive. As ever. We’re going to try fishing tomorrow.”
“Well, good luck,” James says, feeling a small knot beginning to form in the bottom of his stomach.
“Thanks,” Jeremy says, and then there is a period of not-quite-awkward silence. James glances at his watch and knows that soon he’ll have to go down and pretend to be having fun in front of the cameras for dinner, but somehow, even though the conversation has stalled, he doesn’t want to hang up.
“Well, I suppose I’d better go,” he forces himself to say, when the silence has stretched on a few moments too long.
“I suppose I should too. Take care, James.”
“You too,” James says quietly, and then puts the phone down. He slumps forward, scrubbing a hand through his hair, and then stands, preparing himself for the night ahead.
Wednesday - 9.23pm
“James - how are you?”
“Boiling. My room is like a sauna and apparently the people here haven’t heard of air conditioning yet,” James replies grumpily.
“Bad day?” Jeremy asks, sympathetically.
“Pretty awful,” James says, not sure whether to burden Jeremy with his tale of woe or not.
“Want to talk about it?” Jeremy offers sincerely, making the decision for him.
“Oz Clarke is an absolute idiot. He’s worse-tempered than Richard, only he doesn’t forget about it after two minutes. He’s also more arrogant and stubborn than you, but in an un-amusing fashion. He has no idea about quality cars, and if he criticises my driving once more I’m going to swing for him.”
There’s a moment of shocked silence, presumably caused by his uncharacteristic outburst. “So, you’re a little stressed,” Jeremy says eventually.
James laughs hollowly. “You could say that. I’ve been waiting for you to call all day.” He grimaces as soon as he has finished his sentence, unsure how that slipped out.
“Have you?”
James dithers, then says honestly, “Yes. They’re keeping me sane, if you must know. I never thought I’d see the day when Jeremy Clarkson was keeping me sane, but there you go. I must have been an idiot to agree to do this.”
“At least it’s not daytime TV,” Jeremy says, a hopeful tone in his voice. James laughs despite his dismal mood, partly to please Jeremy.
“Sorry to unload on you, mate.”
“Anytime, James, you know that.” Jeremy hesitates slightly and then continues. “You know, I’m having fun with Rich and everything, but it’s not the same as it would be if you were here. He’s rubbish at fishing, for one thing.”
James closes his eyes in contentment. “I wish I was there. But I am, unfortunately, contractually obliged to stay here.”
“James, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about-“ The sound of a crash sounds through the line, interrupting whatever it was that Jeremy was about to say. “What the-? Richard? Francie? What’s happened?” There are a few muffled voices that James can’t quite make out, and then suddenly there’s a new voice on the phone.
“James, are you still there?”
“Richard? What’s going on?”
“Nothing serious, don’t worry. Katya managed to drop a pile of plates on the floor, and she’s cut her knee. Doctor Clarkson ran to the rescue. How are things, mate?”
“They’re, um, they’re good.”
“Jeremy said you’d been a bit down,” Richard says. “Jag not acting up, is it?”
“No - Richard, is Jeremy back yet? He was going to say something.”
“Oh - hang on, I’ll fetch him. Hold on, yeah?”
There’s a thud as the phone is laid down, and then James is left in silence. He squeezes his eyes shut and wonders what it is Jeremy was about to say. The older man had sounded serious, which was a rarity, and James is torn between feeling nervous and excited. He hopes, beyond hope, that what Jeremy was going to say is that he feels the same way as him, that the strange spark they’ve been feeling between them recently is actually real, not just in his imagination; but he’s terrified that Jeremy is going to say that his feelings aren’t reciprocated.
“James?” Jeremy’s voice sounds once more.
“Yes?” James replies, voice embarrassingly high-pitched.
“Sorry about that, Katya cut her leg.”
“Richard said. Listen … what were you about to say?”
“About to say? Well, er … sorry mate, it’s gone completely out of my head!” Jeremy says, but his voice has upped in pitch too. “It can’t have been very interesting, eh?” he finishes weakly, and the irritation that has been building up in James all through his miserable day forces itself to the fore.
“Christ, Jeremy, don’t chicken out now. Why can’t you just say something? Instead of keeping me in suspense. It all hangs on you, mate, I’m not the one with a bloody wife and kids … oh fuck it, Jeremy. I can’t deal with this tonight.” He slams the phone down in a fit of anger, feeling shaken and ill after doing so.
Oh Christ, he thought, running his hands through his sweaty hair and sinking back onto the bed, how had things come to this?
Thursday - 11.20pm
“Jamesh?” Jeremy’s voice is slurred, and James’ head makes a hollow thump as it hits the headboard.
“Jeremy.”
“James, I’m shorry,” Jeremy says, then hiccups. “I didn’t mean … I want to tell you what I wash going to shay. Lasht night.”
“You’re drunk, Jeremy. I’d rather we had this conversation when you were sober. This way, you can just forget about it afterwards and deny all knowledge.”
“Jamesh!” Jeremy squeals indignantly. “I wouldn’t do such a thing!”
“What are you doing?” A hissed voice sounds tinnily in the background. “You’re going to wake the kids.”
“I’m speaking to James,” Jeremy explains loudly.
“Jeremy, go to bed,” James says wearily.
“No, James. I’m going to tell you. About you, an’ me. We get on well, you and I,” Jeremy says, matter-of-factly. “Chalk and cheese, but we’re well-suited.”
James is actually beginning to feel rather hopeful, and waits for Jeremy to continue. Unfortunately, nothing more comes, aside from what sounds ominously like a snore. Then there is a sort of thump, and a voice saying, “Christ, you weigh a bloody ton.”
“Hello?”
“James?” The voice turns out to be Richard. “James, Jeremy’s passed out. He is mortifyingly pissed.”
“So it would seem,” James says, not even bothering, this time, to disguise the hurt and anger in his tone.
Richard seems to take a breath before speaking, rather hesitantly. “James, this is probably none of my business, but … I think I know what’s going on between you and Jeremy.”
“Perhaps you could enlighten me,” James almost spits down the line, knowing he’s being unfair on his friend but unable to stop himself.
“Well … give me a minute, James. I’m a bloke. I don’t know how to talk about this stuff.”
“Give it a try.”
“All right!” Richard’s voice lowers almost to a whisper. “I think Jeremy likes you.”
James realises that this has to be the most bizarre conversation he’s had in a long time, but somehow he’s beyond caring. He’s been pussyfooting around the issue with Jeremy for long enough.
“He doesn’t show it very well,” he huffs.
“To be fair, mate, he’s phoned you every single night I’ve been here. And I’m guessing he called you a couple of times before that, right?” James has to admit that Richard is right. “Add to that the fact that all weekend he’s not shut up about you, and that he’s started up a hate campaign against Oz Clarke, and I think you’ll find his behaviour goes beyond a normal mate caring about his friend, yeah?”
James can’t see Richard, but he has a feeling the younger man’s cheeks are bright red. “He’s married. That’s the thing,” he says, feebly.
“Oh Christ, James. I hope that you realise you owe me a lot of drinks for actually standing here and talking about this with you. Jeremy gets quite chatty when he’s drunk, and I’ve had to be his agony aunt for half the night, and now I’m yours. So I’m going to say this once, and then you’re going to wake up and smell the coffee, ok?”
“All right,” James agrees, knowing to obey Hammond when he takes on that tone of voice.
“Jeremy’s not sleeping with Francie anymore.” His words are rushed and mixed together.
“What?”
“You bloody heard me. Listen, he’s not about to get a divorce or anything, but he’s on the market. And so are you. And you clearly like one another, so the only thing stopping you doing anything is sheer pig-headed idiocy.”
“Oh,” James says.
“Uncle Richard?” It appears that their conversation has once again been interrupted.
“Emily - what are you doing out of bed?” Richard asks.
“I needed a glass of water. Why is my dad on the floor?”
“He fancied a nap, that’s all.”
“You mean he’s drunk,” Emily says shrewdly.
“Well, yes. Off his face, actually. Don’t worry, I’ll put him to bed in a minute. Why don’t you go into the kitchen, and I’ll get you a drink in a second, ok sweetie?” There are a few indistinguishable murmurs and then Richard comes back on the phone. “James, I have to go. Think about what I’ve just said, all right? Although never bring it up in front of me again. I have to go, ok? Take care.”
“You too - thanks, Richard.”
“Don’t mention it. Seriously,” Richard warns, and then hangs up. Dazed, sleepy, and more than a little shell-shocked, James does the same, and then throws his mobile in an unusually haphazard fashion onto the bedside table. His mood, which has been terrible all day, has suddenly lifted.
Friday - 7.46pm
He is waiting by the phone in his room, having begged off dinner early - not that Oz would have noticed, as he was too busy making lewd comments to the pretty camera technician they have with them. He answers halfway through the first ring, not stopping to think whether he’ll look too keen.
“Hello?”
“James, it’s me,” Jeremy says, sounding more nervous and unsure than James has ever heard him before.
“I know.” There’s a bit of a pause, but James has learned, over the past few days, not to be fazed by them. “How are you feeling?”
“Mild headache,” Jeremy tells him. “Hamster told me about last night; my phoning you …”
“Did he? You were quite drunk.”
“I know. Sorry. I just … I needed to say a few things, and thought I might need some Dutch courage to help. I may have taken the idea a little too far.”
“I’d say so,” James says, gently and amusedly, trying to relax Jeremy. It’s unnerving to speak to the man when he’s not being his usual brash, confident self.
“Richard told me what he’d told you, as well, although he looked rather uncomfortable doing so. I think I might have to hold back on the height and teeth-whitening jokes for a while, as a sort-of thank you.”
“What did you think, about what he said?”
“I thought that a lot of it was true. All of it, in fact. I mean, he was right, James. Is this enough? Am I making sense?”
“You’re making about as much sense as I’d expect, Jez. If it helps, I feel the same way. But, like Hammond said, it doesn’t really do to talk about it, does it?”
“It’s not really in our nature,” Jeremy agreed, some of the old confidence slipping back into his tone. “Still, I think I should probably say something about it, just to make up for my drunken ramblings last night. So … I miss you, James. I wish you were here, or I was there, even if it is France.”
That strikes James as one of the nicest things Jeremy has ever said, and he smiles happily on the other end of the line, feeling the ache in his chest and the knot in his stomach, both of which have been haunting him for some time, slowly dissipate. “Me too,” he says softly.
“James, when you get back from your ridiculous trip,” Jeremy says, quickly going back to his usual self, “I’m going to take you out for dinner.” His tone is matter-of-fact and final.
“How very romantic of you,” James comments. “You certainly know how to ask a man out on a date.”
“Well, it’s my first time, but I’m a quick learner,” Jeremy tells him, and James’ smile now is bigger than it has been in a while.
That night, James doesn’t hang the phone up at all. In fact, it isn’t until well into the early hours of the next morning that the connection between the two phones is severed, with a promise to keep in contact every day, and that at the end of his trip, Jeremy will be waiting for him.
James couldn’t be happier.
Fin