Reversing Over Liberace by Jane Lovering Page A

particular spot in the sky? I was at it all morning.”
    â€œWhat with that and the gazebo I’m surprised you found time to cook.” We were standing in the kitchen area now, a bare-floored room with exposed brick walls and a surprisingly large and professional-looking stainless steel cooker on one wall. Seating consisted of a big sofa with a low table in front, angled by one of the tall windows.
    â€œYeah, I had to invite a tiny vicar to tea, to justify building it. Anyway, he fell off the window box, and it’s two storeys down. We haven’t found him yet.” Cal gave me another grin. “Do you like red wine?”
    â€œUm, yes.”
    He took two glasses from a shelf and put them on the table, then grabbed a bottle and corkscrew. “Do the honours then.”
    I set to opening the bottle as Cal competently moved from stove to fridge and back, adding, stirring, his limp hardly noticeable in this confined space. I wondered exactly what my feral brother had in common with this gentle, domesticated man. But then attraction, I guess, moves in mysterious ways. I mean, look at Luke and me. I knew precisely what I saw in him, but what did he see in me? Apart from my more obvious charms, which I stared at, then jiggled.
    â€œWhat on earth are you doing?” I looked up and saw Cal watching me, a newly poured glass of wine in each hand.
    â€œOnly, um, looking at my breasts.”
    â€œPuberty caught up with you, did it? Nasty that. I once got an attack of adolescence, but I just drank until it went away. Cheers.” He handed me my glass and drank from his own. There was a bit of a pause.
    â€œSo.” I sat with my glass perched awkwardly on my knee. “How did you meet Ash?” In loco parentis interviewing mode, even though Iain and Sophie had never shown the least inclination to interview our prospective partners and were, I always felt, slightly disappointed that only one of us had turned out gay.
    â€œDoes it matter? Llama racing, reading the news, over the frozen turkeys in Tesco—what’s the difference?” Cal put two plates down on the table and handed me a fork. “Eat up. Thousands of innocent mycelium were dragged screaming to their deaths to bring you this dish. The least you can do is enjoy it.”
    Side-by-side we ate and drank red wine, until the plates were empty and the glasses wore only a tidemark. “Where did you learn to cook like that?” I sat back, replete, and tried to burp genteelly. “That was stupendous.”
    â€œAncient Rome. All that philosophy and art, and they were buggers for a well-cooked bacon sandwich.” Cal leaned over and turned on a lamp, the room was quite dark now.
    â€œDo you ever answer a question seriously?”
    For a moment, in the half-shadow, he looked almost scary, eerily lit from one side, which highlighted his cheekbones and eyes. “That depends,” he said, and the words were heavy as though a weight of sadness lay upon them, “on who’s asking.”
    â€œMe.” The wine had made me brave.
    â€œOh, well, in that case, no.” He stood up, clearing the plates away into what looked like a cupboard but turned out to be a concealed dishwasher. “Would you like coffee? Tea? Rosewater poured from the brows of virgins?”
    Feeling rebuffed I said, “I’d better get home. Thanks for fixing the laptop, send your invoice to the office, will you? Oh, and thanks for the food. It was lovely. Really.”
    Cal stopped stacking dishes and straightened up at the work surface with his back to me. “I won’t charge you,” he said softly.
    â€œOh, but—”
    â€œAnd it’s cerebral palsy. My leg. It affects my arm too, but only slightly. I was born too early, you see.”
    â€œCal—”
    â€œRight, now you’d better be off. I don’t want my reputation ruined by the presence of a woman after dark. Besides, you don’t know what