A Grand Affaire by Alp Mortal
Categories: Contemporary Romance | Gay
Word Count: 119,673 Heat Rating: 3 Price: $ 2.99 Available here:
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There I was, walking down the street, minding my own business when WHAM, I was catapulted headlong into the strange, slightly scary, and utterly intoxicating world of fashion and male supermodels. With very little choice but to take a deep breath and embrace it all, I was definitely expecting the unexpected ... but meeting the man of my dreams was never on the cards. The question was, could a lowly business analyst-cum-stylist such as myself and one of these designer-clad gods make a go of things?
A whirlwind romance; yes, it was that alright. At times, it felt like I was being eaten alive by cannibals. At times, I could only see the real world through a soft-focus lens. But there were times when reality cut like a knife, and times when I wished I had politely declined the invitation to step aboard the cloud destined for paradise. I pricked myself many times to make sure that I was not dreaming; apparently, I wasn't. A fantastical tornado of a romance; a celebration of love with an enduring message - follow your dreams to the end of the rainbow. A Grand Affaire was the first ever romance that I wrote - one of the first pieces of fiction that I committed to paper. I had no clue what to expect. Fortunately, my characters did an amazing job of guiding me through this labyrinth. Unusually, the story was not triggered by a line of dialogue as so many are. I was recovering from a breakup and simply asked the question - what if? and I wrote myself out of the heartbreak. I am always very happy to receive your feedback. If you wish to contact me directly, please email me at: [email protected]. Visit the website, www.alpmortal.weebly.com, for updates on the next gay romantic story or crime thriller which I am working on. Thank you, Alp Mortal |
Chapter One - We meet for the first time
The first time I saw him was on the Tube on a cold and wet Monday morning in early February. I’d gotten on as usual at Queensway and he was already seated in the carriage, reading the Metro. The carriage was full so I had to stand by the doors. Everyone was dripping and it smelled of something damp and sweaty, and my fellow travellers’ brollies had made the floor wet and slippery.
He looked up briefly as we entered Lancaster Gate to check the station stop, and our eyes met for a half second. There was no acknowledgement, no hint of emotion; just a pair of eyes blankly grazing the sea of pinched faces. He turned his attention back to his newspaper. For some strange reason, I hoped that he didn’t get off too soon. I contemplated the headline of the newspaper of the guy standing in front of me - Banking near crisis point. I wasn’t remotely interested in the story but, like everyone else, it pays not to make too much eye contact ... usually.
He remained in my peripheral vision and I was aware of him each time he turned a page or re-crossed his legs. We proceeded down the Central Line - Marble Arch, Bond Street, Oxford Street, Tottenham Court Road and then Holborn, which was my stop and, apparently, his, because he got up and moved towards the doors in anticipation of the exodus.
I was destined to get off first.
The doors opened and I moved forward but as I stepped off the train onto the platform, I slipped and began to fall backwards. The guy directly behind me thrust out his hand; the impact of which caused me to twist and I knew I was going down, but just at that point, a strong hand caught my arm and righted me.
“Gotcha!” a voice claimed, above the clatter of my iPod, which wasn’t so lucky.
I turned to address the voice and express heartfelt thanks. It was him.
“Thank you!” I blurted out.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
My throat became a void into which my voice disappeared without a trace. Finally, I managed to say, “Yes, I’m fine; thanks.”
“Sorry about your iPod.”
“Oh, please don’t apologise; it wasn’t your fault.”
“Right then; if you’re okay ...”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine; thanks again.”
“Take it easy.” The words barely registering on his lips.
He moved off towards the exit and pretty soon he was swallowed up by the wave of raincoats. The whole episode had probably only taken twenty seconds. I retrieved my iPod and headed out myself. At the station entrance, I realised that I must also have dropped my brolly.
Shit!
I thought about him all day.
The following morning, I hoped that I would see him again. I didn’t, nor did I see him the next day. On Thursday, I was twenty minutes earlier than usual; it wasn’t planned, it just happened that way. The platform at Queensway was much less busy and as the train entered the station, I could see that it too was far less crowded. I waited for the train to stop and entered by the nearest set of doors. He was seated on the left-hand side of the carriage in the middle of the bank of seats facing the platform. There was a seat free directly opposite him and I took it. He hadn’t looked up and was reading the Metro again. As the train pulled away, he glanced up and saw me. I didn’t think he’d recognised me but then he smiled and said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” I replied, desperately trying to think of a way to prolong the exchange. “The weather’s not so bad today,” I managed.
His eyes smiled, perhaps registering how lame and pathetic my attempt had been.
“Not so dangerous underfoot,” he replied.
“No ...”
“I’ll hold your hand as we get off if you’re at all worried ...”
I didn’t reply and just chuckled, blushing a little.
He looked back down at his paper and I looked down too.
As we entered Oxford Street, he looked back up. I caught his eye and held it.
“Did you retrieve your iPod?” he asked.
“Yeah, but it’s completely fucked ...”
“... and not in a good way, I’ll bet.”
“Is there a good way?” I replied innocently, but as the words left my mouth, I realised the possible interpretation.
He smiled very broadly. “I think that depends ...”
I blushed to my roots. Still determined to keep his attention, I changed tack.
“Perhaps you’d let me buy you a coffee for saving me the other day?”
His face changed. He obviously wasn’t expecting that and my invitation had evidently caught him off balance.
“Uhm; there’s really no need.”
“I’d like to ...”
“Okay ...”
At which point, the doors opened and the hordes piled on, blocking our view of each other. It was even worse at Tottenham Court Road so our exchange was halted and no definite arrangement had been made. As we made to get off at Holborn, he managed to thrust his business card into my hand and shout, “Call me!” before he was engulfed by the crowd and whisked away. I thrust the card into my pocket in case I dropped it, and I didn’t look at it until I was safely within the confines of the office.
It wasn’t a business card but one of those personal contact cards, which simply listed his name, mobile number and email address. The card was, however, heavy and expensive looking; the type was embossed and accented in black. Very stylish!
I loathe the telephone so I decided to text and, agonising hours later, I had finally managed to write, ‘Hi! If you want to meet for a coffee or something, how about tomorrow evening after work? Meet you at Nero’s in Old Compton Street at 6:30?’
I signed off and sent it and prepared myself for the interminable wait, but I was pleasantly surprised because he responded almost immediately.
‘Ok, c u there. X.’
My emotions soared and the rest of the day flew.
The next morning, the Friday, I hoped I didn’t see him on the train; it would have spoiled the anticipation. So I left later than usual, but in any event, I had preparations to make. I classified this appointment as a date despite there being no obvious romantic connection, not yet anyway, and I dared not hope. I didn’t even know if he was gay so my choice of Nero’s on Old Compton Street was deliberate as it’s a favourite meeting and cruising spot in Soho. He hadn’t suggested an alternative so that boded well.
Romantic or otherwise, I was keen to meet him again and find out more about him.
Although Friday was mufti day at work, I toyed with the idea of just wearing my suit as usual and a nice tie, perhaps the one from Carol that she’d given me for my birthday. I hated picking out clothes and it was only the prospect of being late for work that finally made up my mind for me that I should wear jeans. I had scrubbed myself pink though, and plucked and shaved and moisturised until I shone like a little star in the Heavens, hoping my lustre didn’t wear off too quickly. I needn’t have worried; the day was easy and sweat-stain free.
At 5:30, I was the last one left in the office and grateful for a little peace and quiet to compose myself and finish my toilette. I didn’t know if he smoked so I had a quick puff and then I thoroughly cleansed my mouth, leaving at 6:15, allowing ten minutes for the walk to the café, aiming to arrive five minutes early. I’m never late; it’s the Golden Rule.
He hadn’t texted so I assumed that he was going to show, which was not always a safe assumption. I walked swiftly but not so quickly that I got hot and bothered. I arrived at 6:25. It was cold and only the diehards were outside puffing away, nursing their lattes, like so many gargoyles. He wasn’t among them and I went inside.
It was two-thirds full and he wasn’t inside either.
I queued for my four shot latté and found a seat in the window that had a spare seat beside it, which I claimed with my bag. I kept an eye on the door while performing my ritual of stirring two sweeteners into the coffee thoroughly.
6:35 - no show and no text.
6:40 - no show and no text.
6:45 - no show and no text.
If this had been an official date, I probably would have walked, but as it wasn’t I simply texted him; ‘on your way?’
6:50 - no show and no reply.
6:55 - no show and no text.
I’d finished my coffee. Five more minutes.
At 7 p.m. I got up and headed for the door, not angry, more just resigned, and I was already chanting a mantra in my head to cleanse the unhappy thoughts. I opened the door and stepped out into the cold night. He arrived breathlessly. I did what I had been fantasising about all day and grabbed his lapels and pulled him in close, launching my assault on his lips. There was the briefest moment of hesitation and then my assault was returned with interest, well above base rate!
We were still in the doorway and a voice bellowed out, “Shut the fucking door!”
I broke off momentarily to reply, “Fuck yourself, and not in a good way!”
He pulled me out and we danced up Old Compton Street towards The Village, laughing and joking.
“I’m sorry I’m late; trouble with the Tube.”
“Ah; the old trouble with the Tube excuse,” I joked, adding, “I believe I could sort that out for you later ...”
The first time I saw him was on the Tube on a cold and wet Monday morning in early February. I’d gotten on as usual at Queensway and he was already seated in the carriage, reading the Metro. The carriage was full so I had to stand by the doors. Everyone was dripping and it smelled of something damp and sweaty, and my fellow travellers’ brollies had made the floor wet and slippery.
He looked up briefly as we entered Lancaster Gate to check the station stop, and our eyes met for a half second. There was no acknowledgement, no hint of emotion; just a pair of eyes blankly grazing the sea of pinched faces. He turned his attention back to his newspaper. For some strange reason, I hoped that he didn’t get off too soon. I contemplated the headline of the newspaper of the guy standing in front of me - Banking near crisis point. I wasn’t remotely interested in the story but, like everyone else, it pays not to make too much eye contact ... usually.
He remained in my peripheral vision and I was aware of him each time he turned a page or re-crossed his legs. We proceeded down the Central Line - Marble Arch, Bond Street, Oxford Street, Tottenham Court Road and then Holborn, which was my stop and, apparently, his, because he got up and moved towards the doors in anticipation of the exodus.
I was destined to get off first.
The doors opened and I moved forward but as I stepped off the train onto the platform, I slipped and began to fall backwards. The guy directly behind me thrust out his hand; the impact of which caused me to twist and I knew I was going down, but just at that point, a strong hand caught my arm and righted me.
“Gotcha!” a voice claimed, above the clatter of my iPod, which wasn’t so lucky.
I turned to address the voice and express heartfelt thanks. It was him.
“Thank you!” I blurted out.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
My throat became a void into which my voice disappeared without a trace. Finally, I managed to say, “Yes, I’m fine; thanks.”
“Sorry about your iPod.”
“Oh, please don’t apologise; it wasn’t your fault.”
“Right then; if you’re okay ...”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine; thanks again.”
“Take it easy.” The words barely registering on his lips.
He moved off towards the exit and pretty soon he was swallowed up by the wave of raincoats. The whole episode had probably only taken twenty seconds. I retrieved my iPod and headed out myself. At the station entrance, I realised that I must also have dropped my brolly.
Shit!
I thought about him all day.
The following morning, I hoped that I would see him again. I didn’t, nor did I see him the next day. On Thursday, I was twenty minutes earlier than usual; it wasn’t planned, it just happened that way. The platform at Queensway was much less busy and as the train entered the station, I could see that it too was far less crowded. I waited for the train to stop and entered by the nearest set of doors. He was seated on the left-hand side of the carriage in the middle of the bank of seats facing the platform. There was a seat free directly opposite him and I took it. He hadn’t looked up and was reading the Metro again. As the train pulled away, he glanced up and saw me. I didn’t think he’d recognised me but then he smiled and said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” I replied, desperately trying to think of a way to prolong the exchange. “The weather’s not so bad today,” I managed.
His eyes smiled, perhaps registering how lame and pathetic my attempt had been.
“Not so dangerous underfoot,” he replied.
“No ...”
“I’ll hold your hand as we get off if you’re at all worried ...”
I didn’t reply and just chuckled, blushing a little.
He looked back down at his paper and I looked down too.
As we entered Oxford Street, he looked back up. I caught his eye and held it.
“Did you retrieve your iPod?” he asked.
“Yeah, but it’s completely fucked ...”
“... and not in a good way, I’ll bet.”
“Is there a good way?” I replied innocently, but as the words left my mouth, I realised the possible interpretation.
He smiled very broadly. “I think that depends ...”
I blushed to my roots. Still determined to keep his attention, I changed tack.
“Perhaps you’d let me buy you a coffee for saving me the other day?”
His face changed. He obviously wasn’t expecting that and my invitation had evidently caught him off balance.
“Uhm; there’s really no need.”
“I’d like to ...”
“Okay ...”
At which point, the doors opened and the hordes piled on, blocking our view of each other. It was even worse at Tottenham Court Road so our exchange was halted and no definite arrangement had been made. As we made to get off at Holborn, he managed to thrust his business card into my hand and shout, “Call me!” before he was engulfed by the crowd and whisked away. I thrust the card into my pocket in case I dropped it, and I didn’t look at it until I was safely within the confines of the office.
It wasn’t a business card but one of those personal contact cards, which simply listed his name, mobile number and email address. The card was, however, heavy and expensive looking; the type was embossed and accented in black. Very stylish!
I loathe the telephone so I decided to text and, agonising hours later, I had finally managed to write, ‘Hi! If you want to meet for a coffee or something, how about tomorrow evening after work? Meet you at Nero’s in Old Compton Street at 6:30?’
I signed off and sent it and prepared myself for the interminable wait, but I was pleasantly surprised because he responded almost immediately.
‘Ok, c u there. X.’
My emotions soared and the rest of the day flew.
The next morning, the Friday, I hoped I didn’t see him on the train; it would have spoiled the anticipation. So I left later than usual, but in any event, I had preparations to make. I classified this appointment as a date despite there being no obvious romantic connection, not yet anyway, and I dared not hope. I didn’t even know if he was gay so my choice of Nero’s on Old Compton Street was deliberate as it’s a favourite meeting and cruising spot in Soho. He hadn’t suggested an alternative so that boded well.
Romantic or otherwise, I was keen to meet him again and find out more about him.
Although Friday was mufti day at work, I toyed with the idea of just wearing my suit as usual and a nice tie, perhaps the one from Carol that she’d given me for my birthday. I hated picking out clothes and it was only the prospect of being late for work that finally made up my mind for me that I should wear jeans. I had scrubbed myself pink though, and plucked and shaved and moisturised until I shone like a little star in the Heavens, hoping my lustre didn’t wear off too quickly. I needn’t have worried; the day was easy and sweat-stain free.
At 5:30, I was the last one left in the office and grateful for a little peace and quiet to compose myself and finish my toilette. I didn’t know if he smoked so I had a quick puff and then I thoroughly cleansed my mouth, leaving at 6:15, allowing ten minutes for the walk to the café, aiming to arrive five minutes early. I’m never late; it’s the Golden Rule.
He hadn’t texted so I assumed that he was going to show, which was not always a safe assumption. I walked swiftly but not so quickly that I got hot and bothered. I arrived at 6:25. It was cold and only the diehards were outside puffing away, nursing their lattes, like so many gargoyles. He wasn’t among them and I went inside.
It was two-thirds full and he wasn’t inside either.
I queued for my four shot latté and found a seat in the window that had a spare seat beside it, which I claimed with my bag. I kept an eye on the door while performing my ritual of stirring two sweeteners into the coffee thoroughly.
6:35 - no show and no text.
6:40 - no show and no text.
6:45 - no show and no text.
If this had been an official date, I probably would have walked, but as it wasn’t I simply texted him; ‘on your way?’
6:50 - no show and no reply.
6:55 - no show and no text.
I’d finished my coffee. Five more minutes.
At 7 p.m. I got up and headed for the door, not angry, more just resigned, and I was already chanting a mantra in my head to cleanse the unhappy thoughts. I opened the door and stepped out into the cold night. He arrived breathlessly. I did what I had been fantasising about all day and grabbed his lapels and pulled him in close, launching my assault on his lips. There was the briefest moment of hesitation and then my assault was returned with interest, well above base rate!
We were still in the doorway and a voice bellowed out, “Shut the fucking door!”
I broke off momentarily to reply, “Fuck yourself, and not in a good way!”
He pulled me out and we danced up Old Compton Street towards The Village, laughing and joking.
“I’m sorry I’m late; trouble with the Tube.”
“Ah; the old trouble with the Tube excuse,” I joked, adding, “I believe I could sort that out for you later ...”
