Dating : Bad Service

Lawrence tapped his foot slightly, his arms loosely crossed over the base of his belly. It was the height of summer, and although the windows on the train carriage were each open, allowing fresh air to come in as they chugged along, but the air outside was just as hot and humid. The inside of the carriage felt stuffy and oppressive no matter the circulating air, and he could feel the back of his shirt clinging to his skin, sweat gathering between his shoulders and the base of his back.

It wasn’t just the heat, of course. He was nervous, knew that he was nervous, and although he was doing his best not to advertise it, he simply couldn’t stop moving: he had folded his hands under his armpits to keep from drumming his fingers, but try as he might, he couldn’t keep his feet still.

Across him, Andrew Cole Riggs, Lawrence’s new valet, rested in the other seat, his lands interlinked with one another and resting against his belly.

Riggs wasn’t looking at Lawrence, but out of the window. He was a remarkably calm traveller, was neat and well-organised, and coming through the station and onto the carriage with him had been a dream — Lawrence hated the crowds at the rail station, hated the days when the train was very busy, but Riggs had chosen precisely the correct time of day so that the train was quiet, and had led him through the station via a side entrance Lawrence had never used before so that they crossed the platform just as the train’s doors opened to allow new passengers aboard.

He was a very good valet.

Lawrence really had been nervous, when he’d contacted the agency — he didn’t at all begrudge his old valet, Habberley, finding new employment, because he’d been getting on somewhat in age, and Lawrence himself had been able to see he was struggling more and more to keep on top of everything.

And —

And maybe Habberley hadn’t been a terribly good valet, Lawrence didn’t know.

He’d liked him very much. It always seemed to him that Habberley did everything a valet needed to do — he kept Lawrence’s flat in tremendous order, and he always did everything Lawrence asked him. He was a little slapdash, disorganised, lost tickets from time to time — but the two of them were birds of a feather in that regard.

And it was —

It was useful, at times.

That Habberley forgot things, that he was so easily circumvented, that he didn’t much interrogate it, if Lawrence told him he’d be elsewhere for a few days. Now and then, in the event that Lawrence suggested he go off on a holiday for a weekend, to visit his family, or go on a retreat — that Lawrence would pay for, of course — he would be delighted.

And he’d been a nice old boy, really, and quite funny, and genuinely very sweet and thoughtful. There was nothing wrong with being disorganised or forgetful — perhaps not ideal in a gentleman’s valet, but it had worked for Lawrence.

Riggs didn’t forget anything.

Riggs kept a little pocket diary and wrote absolutely everything down, in shorthand, and kept a datebook, and Lawrence sometimes wondered why, because it seemed to Lawrence that Riggs had a tremendous memory, that he could and would remember absolutely everything that passed before his eyes.

The flat was in perfect order, every surface polished to a shine, and Lawrence’s wardrobe had never been in such good repair or such high fashion, and it seemed to Lawrence that Riggs could calculate a journey’s duration down to the second, could pick paths through even the most crowded of places so that Lawrence didn’t have to feel even the slightest of discomfort.

He was good at other things, too.

He was a very good cook, on the nights he cooked, and as soon as he noticed Lawrence so much as slow down eating a meal, he’d make a careful note of what ingredient he liked or disliked, and he’d try new recipes, and he played very fine music, played the guitar, and, and, and.

Riggs was perfect.

Lawrence had even quietly mentioned it to him, asked if perhaps Riggs wouldn’t be more satisfied working for a married gentleman, or if he preferred to put his work in with a bachelor, if he might prefer to work for one with a more interesting life, a more complicated life, someone who had a lot of business meetings and appointments and such forth, being as Lawrence mostly had rather casual check-ins with his publisher and his editor respectively.

Riggs had come over very serious, looking up from where he’d been polishing shoes, and had asked, “Has my performance been in some way dissatisfactory, Mr Kidd?”

“No, no, Riggs, God no, not at all,” Lawrence had replied. “I — Well, if anything, I suppose I’m asking if I’m not dissatisfactory for you. Seems to me a valet of your calibre must be bored. I, ah. I live such a…” He’d cleared his throat, trying desperately to think of a suitable life. “Such a quiet life, after all.”

“It is hardly my place to comment, sir,” Riggs had replied, “but I like my work very much. I can’t imagine being dissatisfied in my position.”

It had been a very nice thing to say, Lawrence had thought, and said very nicely.

A shame it was driving him to distraction.

He had been waiting to announce his plans until the train settled into the station. Riggs was tremendously attentive, thoughtful, well-organised and well-scheduled, keen and intelligent. It was dangerous, Lawrence knew. It was tremendously, fantastically dangerous, and he only felt like a rather cruel-hearted beast, being as he did not — couldn’t — appreciate it as it ought be.

But Riggs just got so upset, when Lawrence suggested he might be better suited with another employer, and was two or three years younger than Lawrence himself, only just turned thirty, and of course, Lawrence liked to have a valet who seemed to like his company.

Habberley had rather liked all the days off Lawrence had thrust in his direction, had always jumped at the chance to take the weekend off his duties or leave Lawrence to it when Lawrence voiced the suggestion — diligent when on duty, but so ready to relax.

Riggs never relaxed. Whenever Lawrence suggested, in even the most casual manners, that perhaps he take off for the weekend, Riggs would treat it as some sort of strange jape on Lawrence’s part; even suggesting that he take an afternoon to himself, Riggs would look at him very queerly, and say he would be happy to do so while continuing his duties.

Lawrence gave him a day off per week already, he’d say, which was somewhat generous in itself. He didn’t wish to seem workshy or indolent, he’d say. He liked the meditative nature of his work, he’d say. “I hope I won’t disturb you, Mr Kidd, of course I shall remain entirely out of sight if you require time alone,” he’d say, which always made Lawrence feel terribly guilty indeed, as he’d never much desired time alone in his life.

You couldn’t really, it turned out, ask a valeting agency for their least assiduous valet without garnering some very queer looks, and when you fumbled your way through trying to, it seemed they gave you one of the world’s best.

The rumble and chuff of the wheels beneath them began to slow, and Lawrence sat forward and said, “Riggs, why don’t you drop the bags off at the hotel, and take the evening off?”

Riggs glanced up from where he’d been looking out of the window, and Lawrence saw with a sinking feeling the expression of concern and uncertainty on his face.

“Sir?” asked Riggs.

“Er, I’m just going to go off on a quick walk,” said Lawrence. “Just a romp, an adventure, you know, wander about London and see where it is I end up. I shan’t be back to the hotel until very late, I expect, so you know, ah, take some time for yourself.”

Lawrence kept himself very still as Riggs sat up straight, looking at him a few moments, and said, “I do have duties to attend to once we’re arrived, sir, to press your suit, to — ”

“Oh, that can be done tomorrow,” Lawrence said, giving a little wave of his hand and doing his best to sound casual, because he hardly wanted to arrive back to the room in the state he planned to arrive in with Riggs waiting for him and wanting to help him get undressed and into bed, “take the night to yourself, don’t you worry yourself about all that.”

He was already on his feet and putting on his hat, although the train hadn’t quite stopped just yet as it came in toward the platform, and Riggs was off-kilter, was slow getting up himself.

“Just drop off the bags and take the night off,” said Lawrence as he bowed back into the corridor.

“But, Mr Kidd — ”

He sort of jogged along the train corridor, and dodged as best he could away from the gathering people on the platform, squeezing past a group of gathered young ladies following after a guide and a pair of bankers who insisted on taking up the entire pathway, and he rolled his shoulders after as he rushed off.

He must have looked ridiculous — he knew he looked ridiculous, dashing down the street whilst trying not to give the appearance of running, moving down side streets, alleyways, as though Mr Riggs was likely to be hotly in his pursuit.

He knew London very well, after all — he could hardly live here all the time, not with how many people there were everywhere, because just walking down the high street on a sunny day like this one was enough to set him shivering and panting like an overstimulated greyhound, and just as close to a heart attack, but for the days he was in London…

When he finally slipped into the building through a side entrance made up to seem as if it was just the exit door for the grocer’s, he descended the stairs rather feeling as a man wandering in the desert must feel, knowing that upon cresting this final hill, he would see an oasis on the horizon.

It was cool inside, and being as it was late afternoon but not evening, it was very quiet, and there were only a few regulars dotted about the place.

“Hullo, Larry,” said Bill Lee. “I’ve not seen you in what seems like years.”

“William Elmer Lee,” said Lawrence, in a tone of some pronouncement, and fell against the older man’s chest.

Bill laughed at him, and patted through his hair. “Been busy?” he asked.

“As much as ever,” muttered Lawrence, inhaling the scent of Bill’s cologne and marvelling at the simple pleasure of burying his face, as he well liked to do, against the shoulder of another man, no matter that it was Bill and it wouldn’t be leading anywhere.

“Not especially,” muttered Lawrence, standing straight. “My new valet is a menace.”

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Bill, leading the way over to the bar and commencing to mix him a drink, and Lawrence dropped to sit at the bar, elbows against it, dropping his head into his hands.

“Nothing,” said Lawrence. “He’s a consummate professional. He’s terribly attentive, well-scheduled, notices everything about me. Baulks at an unexpected hour free, let alone when I tell him to entertain himself for a weekend. I’ve not been in a man’s bed since I hired him, because I’m sure he’d see the evidence of it on me upon my return home.”

“Even with your clothes on?” asked Bill.

“Even then,” said Lawrence. “He’s smart as a whip, you know, far smarter than me. I liked Habberley — the two of us were much of a muchness, you know, both of us being a bit dim as far as lightbulbs go. This new one is too intelligent. Makes me anxious — I hate to be around intelligent people.”

“And yet you drink in my bar,” said Bill, pouring from the cocktail shaker into Lawrence’s glass.

“Do you begrudge a man low-hanging fruit, Bill?” Lawrence asked.

Bill grinned at him very wryly. “Something to eat, Larry?”

“You’re one of God’s angels,” said Lawrence, and Bill laughed as he pulled a notepad closer to note down what he wanted.