Brassed Off Calendar Girls do the Full Monty in Camelot (8/?)
"It was like the Spanish inquisition, he thought; her chief weapons were a warm intense gaze, dimples, and an annoying level of insight into relationships. He gave up and put his hands up in mock surrender."
Chapter 8: The Visitors
Half an hour after the massage debacle, the doorbell rang. Arthur looked in the viewfinder and smiled. Gwen stood on the threshold, a bottle of wine in her hand. He opened the door.
“Hello Arthur,” Gwen beamed. “Lance said you were feeling well enough to play football today, but I thought I’d check you hadn’t been over-doing things.”
Arthur chuckled ruefully. His wellbeing seemed to have become something of a preoccupation for the Albion band members, but he didn’t mind. He mistakenly thought that having a visitor would take his mind off the strange situation with Merlin, but didn’t bank on Gwen’s dark talent for gentle questioning.
“Come in,” he said, unwarily. “It’s lovely to see you. Will you stay and share a glass of your wine with me?”
“I’d love to!” she replied warmly. “Got to head out in half an hour or so, but let’s have a drink first.”
Arthur pottered into the kitchen, returning with an opened bottle and two glasses, while Gwen wondered round Arthur’s living room, peering inquisitively at the bookshelves. The “Doctor Who” DVD box set lay open on the coffee table, together with the remnants of a packet of Jammy Dodgers. Arthur swept these aside and poured two glasses. Merlin’s discarded hoodie lay on the sofa, and he hastily picked it up and draped it across the back, to make space for Gwen to sit down. She looked at it.
“So, Arthur,” Gwen started, sipping her wine, eyes still on the hoodie, “Have you been feeling OK-isn’t that Merlin’s?” she asked, breaking off to pick up the hoodie, which had a purple flugelhorn emblazoned upon it.
“Er - yeah, I think so, he left it when he came round earlier,” said Arthur, wincing a bit in pain and embarrassment when he sat down. That confounded, puzzling, blue-eyed, sharp-cheekboned, slim-hipped, beguiling buffoon hadn’t finished massaging his glutes properly, and they were still killing him. Gwen’s eyes bore into him.
“Have you been looking after yourself? Lance was a bit worried you might have overdone it a bit today.”
“I’m OK, thanks, don’t worry about me,” said Arthur. Gwen put her head on one side and didn’t reply. Into her pointed silence he added, “Well, I was a bit sore to start with, but Merlin dropped by and gave me a sports massage, and now I feel much better.” Gwen’s eyebrows rose a little at that. “He’s a physiotherapy student,” Arthur felt compelled to carry on. “It was good practice for him.” Gwen smirked. Arthur swallowed and willed himself to stop talking.
“And this is when he left the hoodie,” said Gwen.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“It’s a bit cold isn’t it? To be leaving without a jumper.”
“He left in a bit of a hurry.”
“Hmm.” Gwen was silent for a moment or two, and then asked “So what is going on with you two?”
Arthur flinched and didn’t say anything.
“Is everything OK?” she continued.
Arthur sighed. It was like the Spanish inquisition, he thought; her chief weapons were a warm intense gaze, dimples, and an annoying level of insight into relationships. He gave up and put his hands up in mock surrender.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Merlin left in a bit of a hurry, and OK, I may have overreacted a little to the sports massage, but I don’t see how that could possibly be my fault. I am not the one with the infuriatingly talented fingers and an absurd lack of boundaries. But he’s as skittish as a young colt. Just when I think I’m getting somewhere he runs away. “
He topped up her wine instead of meeting her gaze.
“Oh, Arthur.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m an idiot. He’s an idiot. There’s no hope for me.” Arthur’s voice caught. He couldn’t believe it. He had an actual lump in his throat.
“I don’t know about that, Arthur. I’ve seen how he looks at you,” said Gwen.
“What do you mean? How does he look at me, exactly?” said Arthur, frowning.
“You silly man, don’t you see it? It’s like he can’t believe his luck. Like all his Christmases have come at once in one, blond, Pendragon-shaped package that he wants to open and jump inside,” said Gwen.
“So why does he keep blowing hot and cold? Coming on to me then running away?” said Arthur, frustrated, grinding his teeth. “He’s driving me to distraction.”
“I’m not sure, but I do think you need to be careful, Arthur. I am pretty sure that something bad has happened to him in the past. I think he could break easily,” Gwen said. Arthur sighed and was silent for a minute or two, twirling his wine glass and gazing moodily into its depths.
“I think that, based on current evidence, there’s every possibility that he will be the one breaking me,” Arthur confessed finally. “He really is the most aptly named person,” he continued, taking a sip of wine. “I think that I just have to keep letting him fly, like the bird of prey he is named for, and trust that I can find a lure to bring him back to me.”
Chapter 8: The Visitors
Half an hour after the massage debacle, the doorbell rang. Arthur looked in the viewfinder and smiled. Gwen stood on the threshold, a bottle of wine in her hand. He opened the door.
“Hello Arthur,” Gwen beamed. “Lance said you were feeling well enough to play football today, but I thought I’d check you hadn’t been over-doing things.”
Arthur chuckled ruefully. His wellbeing seemed to have become something of a preoccupation for the Albion band members, but he didn’t mind. He mistakenly thought that having a visitor would take his mind off the strange situation with Merlin, but didn’t bank on Gwen’s dark talent for gentle questioning.
“Come in,” he said, unwarily. “It’s lovely to see you. Will you stay and share a glass of your wine with me?”
“I’d love to!” she replied warmly. “Got to head out in half an hour or so, but let’s have a drink first.”
Arthur pottered into the kitchen, returning with an opened bottle and two glasses, while Gwen wondered round Arthur’s living room, peering inquisitively at the bookshelves. The “Doctor Who” DVD box set lay open on the coffee table, together with the remnants of a packet of Jammy Dodgers. Arthur swept these aside and poured two glasses. Merlin’s discarded hoodie lay on the sofa, and he hastily picked it up and draped it across the back, to make space for Gwen to sit down. She looked at it.
“So, Arthur,” Gwen started, sipping her wine, eyes still on the hoodie, “Have you been feeling OK-isn’t that Merlin’s?” she asked, breaking off to pick up the hoodie, which had a purple flugelhorn emblazoned upon it.
“Er - yeah, I think so, he left it when he came round earlier,” said Arthur, wincing a bit in pain and embarrassment when he sat down. That confounded, puzzling, blue-eyed, sharp-cheekboned, slim-hipped, beguiling buffoon hadn’t finished massaging his glutes properly, and they were still killing him. Gwen’s eyes bore into him.
“Have you been looking after yourself? Lance was a bit worried you might have overdone it a bit today.”
“I’m OK, thanks, don’t worry about me,” said Arthur. Gwen put her head on one side and didn’t reply. Into her pointed silence he added, “Well, I was a bit sore to start with, but Merlin dropped by and gave me a sports massage, and now I feel much better.” Gwen’s eyebrows rose a little at that. “He’s a physiotherapy student,” Arthur felt compelled to carry on. “It was good practice for him.” Gwen smirked. Arthur swallowed and willed himself to stop talking.
“And this is when he left the hoodie,” said Gwen.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“It’s a bit cold isn’t it? To be leaving without a jumper.”
“He left in a bit of a hurry.”
“Hmm.” Gwen was silent for a moment or two, and then asked “So what is going on with you two?”
Arthur flinched and didn’t say anything.
“Is everything OK?” she continued.
Arthur sighed. It was like the Spanish inquisition, he thought; her chief weapons were a warm intense gaze, dimples, and an annoying level of insight into relationships. He gave up and put his hands up in mock surrender.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Merlin left in a bit of a hurry, and OK, I may have overreacted a little to the sports massage, but I don’t see how that could possibly be my fault. I am not the one with the infuriatingly talented fingers and an absurd lack of boundaries. But he’s as skittish as a young colt. Just when I think I’m getting somewhere he runs away. “
He topped up her wine instead of meeting her gaze.
“Oh, Arthur.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m an idiot. He’s an idiot. There’s no hope for me.” Arthur’s voice caught. He couldn’t believe it. He had an actual lump in his throat.
“I don’t know about that, Arthur. I’ve seen how he looks at you,” said Gwen.
“What do you mean? How does he look at me, exactly?” said Arthur, frowning.
“You silly man, don’t you see it? It’s like he can’t believe his luck. Like all his Christmases have come at once in one, blond, Pendragon-shaped package that he wants to open and jump inside,” said Gwen.
“So why does he keep blowing hot and cold? Coming on to me then running away?” said Arthur, frustrated, grinding his teeth. “He’s driving me to distraction.”
“I’m not sure, but I do think you need to be careful, Arthur. I am pretty sure that something bad has happened to him in the past. I think he could break easily,” Gwen said. Arthur sighed and was silent for a minute or two, twirling his wine glass and gazing moodily into its depths.
“I think that, based on current evidence, there’s every possibility that he will be the one breaking me,” Arthur confessed finally. “He really is the most aptly named person,” he continued, taking a sip of wine. “I think that I just have to keep letting him fly, like the bird of prey he is named for, and trust that I can find a lure to bring him back to me.”