The Photographer's Assignment

"Then the kids came along and they moved to the south of France, and it was three times a year.

"But I liked going there - seeing Matthieu and Olivier as they grew up. But she didn't really like me being with them - thought I was a bad influence."

I nodded sympathetically. Brad was a good job of painting Paulette as the evil step-mother, but surely even he'd concede he wasn't the best behaved teenager in England.

"Anyway," he continued, "they were going to Barbados and I was meant to go too - you know I was. They were flying from Marseille and I was going from Gatwick and we were meant to meet there at the airport - our flights were going to arrive half an hour apart.

"And Dad said that Paulette was going to book everything and she'd send me the tickets and it would all be arranged - I just had to turn up at the airport with my passport and my suitcase."

"Well that sounds alright," I interjected.

"But she didn't book it!" he wailed. "She didn't do it. It wasn't that she forgot - she didn't do it deliberately.

"She had no intention of letting me go with them - she didn't even book a hotel room for me!"

"Oh," I said, trying to untangle exactly who'd promised what and when. "What about your Mum, what did she say?"

"Well she wanted me to go anyway. We found out on Thursday. She wanted to book a flight and a hotel there and then.

"That's when it all came out. We called Dad to say I was coming anyway and that Mum would pay - that's when he said Paulette didn't want me around - that I was a bad influence on the boys - that I'd lead them astray."

There were tears welling up in his eyes now.

"He wouldn't take my side. He said I didn't deserve to go. He wouldn't fight my corner - even discuss it. He wouldn't... He wouldn't."

He collapsed forwards and buried his head in his hands - devastated.

I reached across and stroked his arm.

"Your Mum still went to Kenya," I said quietly.

Brad looked up, an almost defiant look in his eyes.

"I made her go. It's her trip of a lifetime. I said I'd be fine - I'd just hang with my mates."

"Do they know? What about Dean and Olly? Did you call them? Did you tell them?" I asked.

Brad shook his head.

It seemed a little strange to me: Why hadn't he reached out to his friends? Why was he cooping himself up in his house on his own? Was it a male pride thing? Couldn't bring himself to admit why he hadn't be allowed to go? And why would he tell me - of all people?

I drank the rest of the water and put the glass down on the kitchen table.

"Well," I said slowly. "If you don't wanna be on your own this evening, you're welcome to come to mine. We can order a takeaway or something."

Brad hesitated and was about to respond, when suddenly there was a loud crash from the side of the house. It sounded like someone was trying to kick the side gate in.

"What the fuck?" he exclaimed.

The two of us got up and crept into the sitting room. There was a translucent blind drawn across the window, which meant we could look out, but no one could see in.

There were two more bangs, accompanied by a rending crack and half a dozen of Brad's mates spilled onto the patio area around the pool.

He looked at me in horror.

"Did you know they were coming?" I whispered.

He shook his head. He was simply flabbergasted.

"Are you sure it's OK?" one of the girls was whining. It was Courtney the perpetual moaner; I couldn't stand her, but she was allowed to hang in the cool crowd because she was an easy lay.

"Yeah it's fine," Dean snapped back. He was the worst - built like a tank and with the strength to match. Undoubtedly he'd have been the one breaking in.

"But what about the gate?" she persisted.

Dean shrugged.

"They'll think it's burglars - I don't care," spat Olly. He couldn't stand Courtney any more than I could. "Now get your kit off and get in the pool."

Brad and I exchanged more horrified glances.

"Did you say they could?" I whispered.

He shook his head. There'd been an incident a few years back when one of the thugs had got themselves paralytic, vomited in the pool and then fallen over and cracked their head on the paving stones. Jen had banned Brad's friends for over two years and, even now, they were only allowed round if she was physically present in the house.

"I need a piss," announced Dean to the assembled company.

A shiver ran through me. If he was going to try the door into the kitchen, he'd find it unlocked and realise we were here.

We watched as Dean sauntered over to the far side of the garden. Where was he going? He reached the flowerbed (Jen's pride and joy) and unzipped the fly on his shorts. My heart sank. A stream of urine sprang from his crotch arced away from us into the shrubs.

I looked up at Brad again. He was standing, stock still, routed to the spot, unable to speak or move.

"You not gonna go out there and say something?" I asked.

He shook his head. It was almost fear I saw in his eyes.

Olly was heading over to where Dean was zipping up his shorts - doubtless to do the same thing.

I turned and headed for the door.

"W-w-where are you going?" Brad stuttered.

"Well if you're not going to do anything, I will," I said decisively, not entirely sure what I was going to do or say.

I took a few photos from the kitchen window, so I could prove, if necessary, which of our classmates were there, then hid my phone behind a coffee jar.

Eight guilty faces looked up at me as the door to the garden creaked open and I stepped out onto the patio.

For three seconds no one moved.

"You need to go." I said tersely. "You're not allowed to be here."

"Why are you here?" asked Izzy, one of the girls.

"I work for Brad's mum," I said. "I'm meant to be here. You're not. You need to leave now."

"Brad said it was OK," called Olly, making his way back towards the pool. He curled his face at me in disgust.

"This isn't Brad's house - it's his mum's," I insisted.

"But it's alright, she's not here," Olly countered, sneering at me.

"I've just sent her photos of you two pissing in the flowerbed," I bluffed. "And she's gonna ring your parents and make them pay for a new gate."

There was a collective intake of breath.

"You're lying," shouted Olly in frustration. "I bet you're not meant to be here either."

"If I don't phone her back in three minutes to say you're gone, she's going to call the police," I countered.

That changed everything. I'd never seen the eight of them move so fast - within thirty seconds they were gone, without so much as a backward glance - a pack of neanderthals off in search of their next victim.

Calm returned to the garden.

The door creaked open behind me and I turned to see Brad staring at me, open mouthed.

"You just gonna stand there staring?" I snapped, my blood pumped with adrenaline.

"Er sorry," he mumbled. "Thanks," he added a little sheepishly.

"Let's go and have a look at this gate," I said.

We walked round to the side of the house. Sure enough, the door in the fence that separated the back garden from the front, had been kicked down.

I looked across at Brad. He was shaking with rage, unable to form coherent sentences.

I pushed the gate upwards - the hinges and the latch that were destroyed, but the wood itself still fitted into the frame - more or less. A couple of planks of wood, screwed between the posts to hold the gate would suffice for a few days.

"We need to make this secure," I said.

He nodded.

"You got any timber in the shed?" I asked.

Brad looked at me as if I was mad.

"You're not gonna try and mend this?" he suggested, as if I'd proposed building the Great Wall of China in an afternoon.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Why not?" I asked. "What else are we gonna do?"

"I dunno - call someone out?"

"But it's half-four on a Sunday afternoon," I replied. "If we do get anyone out, they're just gonna nail it shut and say they'll come back in the week."

Brad frowned at me, but pulled himself together, preparing to take charge.

"I'll get some boards from the shed," he said. "And it'll be better if we use screws rather than nails."

We walked back to the kitchen and I retrieved my phone to take a few photos of the damage. Brad disappeared down the garden and returned a minute or so later with a saw and some timber planks.

We worked quickly. I held the wood and gate in place as he screwed them together. When we were finished, the gate was fixed shut - there was no way even Dean was going to get through - not that I thought he'd try again.

"Thanks," he said, after he'd got back from putting the saw away. "I don't know what I'd have done without you here."

"That's OK," I smiled.

There was an awkward pause. He was looking at me strangely.

"I ought to get going," I said.

"You know you suggested sharing a takeaway this evening?" he said slowly.

I nodded.

"Does your offer still stand?" he asked meekly.

"Yeah, you're welcome to come round," I replied. "You can stay over if you like - if you don't wanna be here on your own."

Brad smiled at me.

"Yeah, I might just do that," he replied.

-

"So have you heard from Peter?" asked Brad as he helped himself to another spoonful of rice. We were eating our takeaway curry on the kitchen table, so the smell wouldn't spread through the house.

I shook my head.

"No," I replied. "I wasn't expecting to, to be honest."

Brad frowned.

"You think he's too busy? Surely he'd 've sent something - he's been out there what - five days?"

I smiled weakly, hoping that would suffice as a response.

"We really must get you two together," he went on, ignoring my obvious discomfort. "D'you think he's just shy? Should I talk to him? Get him to make the move?"

I took a deep breath, not really wanting to continue the conversation.

"I dunno," I sighed. "I don't think he wants it deep down." I paused. "I'm not sure he's really into girls."

Brad looked up sharply.

"You mean he's gay?" he asked in surprise.

I shook my head. It felt really wrong to be talking about this, to Brad of all people - so disloyal. Even if Peter would never be my boyfriend, he was still my friend - and a close one at that.

"One of the other guys that's on the maths team with him - Alistair," I said reluctantly, "I'm not sure, but Peter's talked about him a lot. And I went on Facebook - and I know photos there don't mean much, but, well..."

My voice trailed off.

There was a silence, which stretched to become awkward. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

"And are you cool with that?" Brad asked. "I mean if he comes back from Bulgaria and tells you he's with the guy of his dreams - would that be OK?"

I looked down.

"I'd be really happy for him," I said slowly, "of course I would. And it'd be far better that he works things out now, than if he's struggling with me."

I could hear the sadness in my own voice. Brad was forcing me to confront what I'd suspected for a while. I guess I was more attached to Peter than I thought.

Brad reached forwards and took my hand in his.

"There's a real special guy out there just waiting for you," he said softly. "And whoever he is, he's gonna be so lucky to find such a beautiful girl like you."

I felt myself blushing.

I looked up into Brad's deep blue eyes. He was the sort of guy you'd never expect to be able to show sympathy or empathy - not with his track record. But in that moment, it seemed he was the only person in the world who could understand.

We were both rejects in our own way.

-

We watched TV later that evening. Titanic was on - we hadn't made plans to see it, it was just starting as we flicked between channels. I'm a real sucker for tear-jerker movies (especially after drinking alcohol) and by half-way through, I was blubbing my eyes out.

At first, Brad pretended not to notice, but after a few minutes, he shuffled across on the sofa and put his arm around me. I leant against him, burying myself in his embrace. No guy had ever held me like that before. It felt nice. It felt safe. I felt secure.

He gave me another hug at the top of the stairs and I felt him plant a kiss on the top of my head, before he said goodnight and disappeared into my sister's bedroom.

I lay awake for a long time, thinking of everything and nothing. No boy had ever slept over at my house before - not even Peter. Yet here was Brad, the guy I'd spent most of my secondary school career trying to keep away from, slumbering away in the next door room, with just a thin wall between us.

I tried to imagine what he'd look like - stretched out in the bed, his tousled, blond hair spread over the pillow. He hadn't brought pyjamas - he'd be in T-shirt and boxers. Or maybe he'd be bare-chested? He might even be naked - what a thought!

I conjured the image of him from the pool, earlier in the day. His muscular frame, those broad shoulders, his powerful arms. That was a nice vision to drift off to - a very nice vision indeed!

-

I woke late the following morning, as the smell of cooking wafted up the stairs.

I lay in my bed, trying to work out what the aroma was, but having decided that the house wasn't on fire, I crept to the bathroom, to make myself look a little bit more presentable.

I entered the kitchen a few minutes later, having done my best to untangle my hair. Brad was standing at the stove cooking pancakes. He'd changed his clothes and he looked washed and shaved.

"Mmm, that smells good," I murmured as I peered into the frying pan.

He put his arm around my back and gave me a gentle squeeze.

"Thought I'd surprise you, say thank you," he said, poking at the batter with a spatula. "I went home for a shower and I brought the stuff back with me."

"Oh that's very nice," I replied, a little too offhandedly.

Secretly I was flattered, thrilled. It had never occurred to Peter to even offer to cook for me - though a few times I'd done so for him.

"What are you up to today?" Brad asked, as we sat down at the kitchen table to eat.

"I'm not sure," I replied, nursing my mug of coffee. "I was going to go for a swim at yours," I smiled, "but if you're there, I don't need to water the plants."

"You can still come over," he said. "Tell you what, we could have a barbecue if you like."

"Yeah, that would be cool," I said slowly. "Actually, I've got some stuff for a barbecue in the fridge - I was going to cook it yesterday, but we had the takeaway instead."

-

I went up to change into my swimming costume in the guest bedroom. I'd never been upstairs at Brad's house before. The door at the end of the landing was ajar; I pushed it open and peered in.

It was obviously Brad's room, but it wasn't how I'd expected it. I'd imagined a chaotic scene with posters of semi-naked girls on the walls and piles of dirty clothes festering on the floor. But it was clean and tidy; even the bed was made.

There was a pinboard with photos on the opposite wall. I crept across to look at it. There were photos of Brad in various sports teams over the years, a couple with his mum and then a few with what looked like his dad and his new family.

I turned to see Brad entering the room.

"Sorry," I said, more than a little embarrassed. "I was just being nosey."

He smiled.

"That's Ok," he said softly. "I was just bringing you this." He indicated the towel slung over his left arm.

He crossed the floor and stood next to me.

"Are they your half-brothers?" I asked, pointing to one of the photos.

He nodded.

"Yeah. That's Matthieu - he's nine and then that's Olivier - he's seven."

As he spoke, I was running the calculation in my mind.

Brad was two months shy of his nineteenth birthday and his parents had split up when he was nine. It hit me in a flash. Paulette must have been pregnant when his Mum and Dad had divorced. Depending on the exact dates, it was even possible that Matthieu had been born before the decree absolute had been granted.

I looked up at Brad. He was chattering away about his two half-brothers. It was obvious he had a great affection for them. But I wasn't listening - I playing his life through in my head - imagining what would have happened as he grew older and became more aware of the circumstances of his parents' divorce. That was surely enough to send any teenager off the rails.

-

There was a moment that afternoon when I realised I'd fallen for him, but I'm not sure exactly when. No, it wasn't as I watched the sweep of his arms as he swam up and down the pool...

...or gazed in admiration at his broad shoulders and muscular back...

...or admired the definition of his pecs as he heaved himself from the water...

...or sneaked a peak at the bulge in his trunks, as his crossed the terrace in front of me.

Was it as we cooked together on the barbecue?

...as he opened that bottle of champagne?

...as we laughed and joked together?

...as he placed a plate of food before me?

...as he reached forwards to wipe a drop of sauce from my chin?

Or was it as we sat together, watching as the sun slipped ever lower in the sky?

...when my hand, unbidden, reached to touch his chest?

...when he placed his arm around me?

...when he stroked my cheek?

...when he bent forwards to kiss me and I melted in his embrace?

Or had I always been under his spell, no matter how hard I tried to resist?

-

As darkness fell and the air became cooler, he took my hand and lead me inside.

We stood before each other, a couple of paces apart, studying one another. He was so beautiful, so handsome - I let myself admit that.

And those eyes, those azure blue eyes - that the day before had been wells of deepest sadness, now shone with the full power of his confidence.

My gaze slipped lower, past the broad strength of his shoulders to the sculpted perfection of his chest. A forest of wispy hairs nestled between his pecs - they'd looked darker when he'd been in the pool, but now they shone as golden curls. Electricity flashed between us as I felt the coolness of his skin - he was hot - so, so hot.

He reached down and brushed a stray stand of hair away from my face, lightly stroking my cheek. My heart was pounding with excitement and I felt my chest beginning to flush with the fire of my arousal. This felt natural, this felt right.

His kiss was soft, tender, teasing me as I melted against him. His arms encircled me, folding his muscular frame around mine.

He nuzzled my hair and I pulled him even more tightly against me. I could feel something digging against my stomach, something long, something hard, something bone-like!

I pushed back a little and looked down at his swimming shorts. The uncomfortable stretch of the fabric gave it all away - so that's what it felt like!

I looked up at him.

"Are you, are you hard?" I asked hesitantly.

He blushed.

"Sorry," he said weakly, "I can't help it."

"No, it's amazing, it's wonderful," I whispered, still in awe, still not quite believing that I could have that effect on him.

I reached out and stroked his hardness lightly with the back of my hand. An intense heat was raging in my core, overwhelming me with lustful thoughts, banishing 'sensible Claire' from the proceedings.

He smiled back at me.

"You're so beautiful, Claire," he said simply.

Our mouths attacked each other again, tongues entwined as I moaned my desire. My heart was pounding in my ears; my pussy screaming in desperation.

"Please Brad, please. I want you, I want you!" I panted.

He held my face between his powerful hands and kissed me on the forehead.

"Let's go upstairs," he said quietly.

He led the way - purposeful, confident, his hand grasping mine firmly, yet reassuringly.

We stood at the foot of his bed and I looked up at him, expecting him to reach down, to grasp me, to smother me with kisses, to rip my bikini off, to throw me on the bed, to ravish me as I surrendered.