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Jolly Rotten Holidays

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On New Year’s Day, Maurice drove to his office in London to see if it had survived the festivities. Alec stayed in bed and slept and slept, not even coming down at tea-time.

Anne drove to Ipswich to visit her brother and his family. Maurice was pottering around in his home office while I tidied the kitchen.

I had not expected this to happen so soon, but it did. Would you come upstairs please? I read on my phone. There’s no bed I texted back. Would you mind using the master bedroom? I got bombed with smilies that cried laughing and some turd emojis.

I went upstairs and there he was, wearing a jersey and jeans. ‘I know you want to watch me undress,’ he whispered.

We went in and closed the door. I hurriedly tore off my clothes and then lay down on the bed to observe his every sensual, fragrant movement. But he watched me too. ‘Your jewelry makes you deliciously desirable,’ he whispered. ‘You’re a jewel yourself.’ I wore three silver rings on my fingers and the necklace with the charm he’d given me at Cambridge.

I decided to conquer him slowly and kissed him from his lips all the way down to his clean-shaven groin. ‘Don’t,’ he panted as I took him in my mouth. A shock went through me. ‘I don’t want to come too soon, love, that’s all. I want to be inside you.’

But we took our time, he kissed the mole on my foreskin and murmured how he had missed it, and then he slowly lowered his lovely body on mine and slid into me.

We had not made love for over two months and this only added to the bliss we both felt.

His eyes shone into mine, grey and clear and full of joy, I could feel his heart beating restlessly against mine and then we both perished and stayed under water for delicious ages until we slowly floated back to the surface.

It had gone completely dark outside so I turned on a bedside light. Then I slid into his arms again and kissed his gorgeous nipples while he buried his nose in my hair. ‘I love you so much, Clive,’ he whispered. ‘No force on earth could ever separate us.’

‘And you love Alec, too.’

‘I do. A little more each day. He’s a hero.’

‘After what he did yesterday?’

‘I got a notion as soon as I phoned him and learned that Risley was next to him. Go, Alec, go, I thought, you have more sense than I.’

‘So that’s why you sounded so calm when I phoned you at Kitty’s.’


There was some movement on the landing. Then the door opened. Alec came in, dressed in his house clothes. ‘Fuck, I’m hungry,’ he said.

‘No probs,’ I smiled. ‘I’ll make us some fish fingers and chips later.’

He nodded in appreciation and asked us if we cared for a cuppa. Ten minutes later we were sipping happily, Maurice and I still in bed, Alec sitting on the edge of it.

‘I just thought of something,’ he then said with difficulty. ‘We haven’t seen the last of Risley yet, I’m afraid.’

‘Why?’ Maurice asked. ‘He got the message, thanks to you, dear.’

‘Are you daft? His car is still outside this house.’

We had completely forgotten about the BMW. All went dark.

‘Fuck,’ was all Maurice could say.


Anne and I never bought any tabloid newspapers. Only when Maurice got home a few weeks into January did we get an update. ‘I saw this when I stopped for diesel on my way back from the station,’ he grinned, waving the Daily ***.  ‘So I bought it. You can’t read it on their website unless you’ve got a subscription, I suppose.’

Former MP flees possible prosecution the bold headlines read. There were some pictures, courtesy of ANP (the national Dutch Press Agency) of Risley standing at the window of a coffee shop*, presumably in Amsterdam or Rotterdam. ‘All of Holland is still in complete lockdown,’ Maurice explained. ‘But you can still order and collect.’ We saw Risley walking down a street where all the pubs were closed, but he was still holding a can of beer he must have bought at a supermarket, and a spliff.

Another picture showed him strolling through a park holding hands with a man in his thirties who had an impressive ginger goatee and a hipster hair bun. ‘Yup, that’s the driver that picked him up in France,’ Alec said. ‘What a sweet couple they are.’

Now that happiness had returned to my house, I found it in my heart to be happy for Risley too. He deserved it, as I would soon find out.

Anne had an Instagram account under a fake name to check out what the customers of the company she worked for were up to. She used this to look up Sandro.

Please respect Professor Risley’s privacy as well as mine his last post read. Nothing happened and it's over anyway.

‘He must be sore now that Risley has another lover,’ Maurice remarked. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best that he’s no longer with Sandro, but love and logic are incompatible.’