New Lease of Life

By Lillian Francis

Phillip used to laugh a lot, back when his friends called him Pip. However the good deed that left him hospitalised not only marred his body, it stripped him of his good humour too. Ever since, he has pushed his friends away and shut out the world. Donating his vintage clothing to a charity shop should have been the final act in a year-long campaign to sever the links with the man Pip used to be, but the stranger on his doorstep awakens feelings in Pip that he hasn't experienced since the incident that left him angry at the world and reliant on the cold metal of the hideous hospital-issue crutch.

Colby forces his way into Pip's life, picking at the scab of his past. Colby isn't interested in Pip's money or his expensive address. He has only one goal: to make Pip smile again.

With every moment in Pip's presence, Colby chips away at the walls Pip has built around himself. Pip knows it's impossible to fight his attraction with Colby's sunny disposition casting light into the darkness in his soul. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lillian Francis
• Release date: Mar 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393235262

Lillian Francis

Lillian Francis. Author of gay romance. Happy Endings guaranteed. Eventually. Lillian Francis is an English writer who likes to dabble in many genres but always seems to return to the here and now. Their name may imply a grand dame in pink chiffon and lace, but Lillian is more at home in jeans, Converse, and the sort of T-shirts that often need explaining to the populous at large but will get a fist bump at Comic-Con. Lillian is a self-confessed geek who likes nothing more than settling down with a comic or a good book, except maybe writing. Given a notepad, pen, their Kindle, and an infinite supply of chocolate Hob Nobs and they can lose themself for weeks. Romance was never their reading matter of choice, so it came as a great surprise to all concerned, including themself, to discover a romance was exactly what they’d written, and not the rollicking spy adventure or cosy murder mystery they always assumed they’d write. Luckily there's always room for romance no matter what plot bunny chooses to bite them, so never say never to either of those stories appearing. Lillian lives in an imposing castle on a windswept desolate moor or in an elaborate shack on the edge of a beach somewhere, depending on their mood. And while they’d love for the heroes of their stories to either be chained up in the dungeon or wandering the shack serving drinks in nothing but skimpy barista aprons more often than not they are doing something far less erotic like running charity shops and shovelling elephant shit. Drawn to the ocean, although not in a Reginald Perrin sort of way, Lillian would love to own a camper van and to live by the sea.

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Copyright

Cover artist: Paul Richmond

New Lease of Life, 2nd edition © 2020 Lillian Francis

Published by Finally Love Press

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee. Such action is illegal and in violation of Copyright Law.

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental.

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The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Chapter One

Y ou have reached your destination.

Maybe I have, Colby snapped at the nasal voice of the satnav, but there’s no bloody space to park.

On-street parking in London. The bane of his existence.

Always had been. Even back in the day when he’d been visiting clients. From A- to Z-listers, regardless of their letter, they all desired a swanky London postcode and a personal trainer while their star shone. And none of them thought to provide said personal trainer a parking space or a permit. That’s why, in his own fifteen minutes of fame—that had left him with a cool million in the bank and comparative anonymity from the masses at large—Colby had purchased a detached house in one of the leafier London suburbs with a garage and a rather large driveway.

Turn around when possible.

Fuck off, Colby grumbled at the machine. Do you think I’m stupid?

He leant forward and fumbled for the power switch, cutting off the voice before he felt compelled to issue his own set of implausible instructions about orifices and where things could be stuffed.

An amber flash attracted his attention, and he slowed, earning an angry prolonged toot from the car behind him. Pulling up and putting on his hazard lights, he waited for the car that was indicating to vacate the space and then quickly slipped his Fiat 500 into the gap. Number one rule of parking in London: if you snooze you lose.

Rule number two was to always carry plenty of change for the parking meter. One hour should be enough, but paying out for two was preferable to getting a yellow boot. He didn’t have the time or the inclination to deal with clampers on any day of the week. They killed his mojo and were one of the few things—along with the voice of his satnav—to seriously piss him off.

Having paid what felt like enough to rent a small country rather than a patch of asphalt only just large enough for his very compact car, Colby thumbed the locking button on his key fob and started back down the road.

He jogged a couple of hundred yards, aware that he was already several minutes late for his appointment, and kept an eye on the house numbers as he passed. The houses here had no front gardens; instead a wide set of grand-looking steps separated their large front doors from the pavement.

Many of the four-story houses had been converted into two apartments—there was no way they could be referred to as flats with all the negative connotations that word conjured up in Colby’s mind—with the door to the downstairs abode being the old tradesmen’s entrance. From other similar homes he had been in over the years, Colby guessed that whatever the lower apartment lost in curb appeal, it more than made up for in space, since the upstairs apartment no doubt incorporated the boxy attic rooms.

Regardless, these properties would sell well into six figures. That meant the inhabitants had money and were well-off or well-to-do. Either way it had Colby’s spider sense tingling. Designer or vintage. Maybe a bit of both. He could be in for a good haul today.

He slowed as he reached the twenties and pulled out his phone to check the number. 25b. A downstairs apartment, according to the way the rest of the street had been numbered. Covering the last few feet at a walk allowed Colby the time he needed to calm his hurried demeanour. With his agitation—at London traffic in general and the possibility of being late in particular—quelled, he came to a stop at the wide stone steps of number 25. As he suspected the overbearing front door declared it belonged to 25a in bold, polished brass. His appointment was downstairs, then.

A stretch of quality railings, all curled and shaped ironwork, separated the stairway to the lower level from the pavement. Colby made his way to the gap and then paused at the top of the stairs that led down to the lower doorway. The double handrail that guided the wary traveller down the stairs was unusual for such a property. Although the metalwork was sympathetic to the high quality of the railings, it was undoubtedly a newer edition.

Colby scuffed the sole of his suede lace ups—smart shoe for a posh address but casual enough not to clash with his outfit—over the surface of the top step. The banister had probably been added when the stone steps received the anti-slip surface on the treads. Not just a strip either but full coverage. Despite the fact that he would normally skip easily down the stairs, Colby found himself using the handrail and treading carefully, as though heeding the warning the steps themselves had issued. The amendments to the property implied an old and infirm resident, and Colby braced himself to be greeted by a grieving relative.

Another set of brass digits proclaimed his journey’s end. He pressed the doorbell, noting that both the bell ringer and the numbers lacked the shine and polish of the house above. Inside, the bell chimed his arrival in dulcet and welcoming tones—no crass electronic buzzer or, worse, tinny music to mar the quality of the property—and he half expected the door to be opened by a butler in his best bib and tucker. Mindful of that thought, he smoothed a hand down the front of his button-up plaid shirt and then checked that the back of his shirt was still tucked into the waistband of his russet coloured chinos.

But, despite checking his appearance, no butler appeared to chase off the hoi polloi. In fact, no one came to the door. Colby checked his watch—he wasn’t that late, a couple of minutes at most—and pressed the doorbell again.

As the second chime faded away, Colby heard an odd thudsqueakcurse, thudsqueakcurse, thudsqueakcurse that got progressively louder the longer he stood poised with his finger still hovering near the bell press. Dropping his hand back to his side, Colby leant closer to the door, hoping to make out the individual sounds, but they were muffled by the thick wood.

You only need to press the bell once, said the angry young man whose face appeared in the gap as the door was opened. I should get a plaque saying ‘Cripple lives here. Be patient.’ This last part appeared to be muttered more to himself before he returned his brusque attention back to Colby. What d’you want?

Mr Longhampton? Colby addressed the disembodied head, since it became apparent the door wasn’t going to be opened fully until he’d introduced himself, if at all. I’m Colby from New Lease of Life. You phoned about a clothing donation for my shop.

Oh. The man’s expression—Colby still wasn’t certain he was talking to Mr Longhampton—darkened even further, and he disappeared for a moment before the door was opened to allow him entrance. You’re late.

My apologies, Colby said with a smile purported to turn little old ladies into simpering girls and quell the cries of a baby. I struggled to find a parking space.

Obviously Colby’s smile didn’t work on grumpy posh bastards since a snort was his only response, and they still moved no farther into the house.

Uncertain of how to proceed with the prickly man in front of him, Colby asked, although it was more a suggestion than a question, If you could just show me the items you want to donate.

Clothes. The man sighed, suddenly saddened.

Grief worked in mysterious ways, but Colby had never seen anything quite like this before. "You are Mr Longhampton?"

No, I’m a bloody squatter.

Stunned by the strength of the man’s ire, Colby took an involuntary step back.

With a sharp exhale, his host shook his head. Sorry. Of course I am. It’s a bit of a mouthful, though, and makes me feel like my father. My name is Phillip. I called you about my... about the clothes.

Phillip Longhampton’s accent might have been an accident of birth, but Colby had no doubt it had been shaped and polished in the best schools in the country, and it shone through the angry words.

I should apologize for my greeting, he continued. I have a sign about cold callers by the door, but despite that, they still insist on ringing my bell. Repeatedly.

Heat coloured Colby’s cheeks as he remembered his own impatience. But you were expecting me?

Phillip’s gaze flickered over Colby, and he snorted. Not exactly.

Phillip Longhampton gestured him in, but Colby stood his ground. There was no point crossing the threshold if this was a wasted trip.

You did call us?

Yes, but— Phillip sent another skittering glance in Colby’s direction. —you’re a charity shop. I was expecting a matronly type in a lavender twin-set and sensible shoes, not—

Not? Colby prompted with a half smile.

Not someone who looks like they should be playing rugby for England, Phillip said abruptly. Look, are you coming in? The chill in the air... He trailed off and gestured down his body.

Stepping into the hallway, Colby cast his gaze over the man in front of him, trying to see beyond the baggy, faded T-shirt and loose-fitting jogging bottoms that hid a multitude of sins. From his exposed forearms and delicate wrists, Colby would have said Phillip was naturally slim, but the sunken cheeks, dark hollows beneath his eyes, and sallow skin declared him gaunt and sickly. The impression of ill health was topped off by lank blond hair in desperate need of a cut.

At least he smelled clean. Spicy with a hint of ginger.

Angry pale blue eyes glared back at him when his gaze reached Phillip’s face, and Colby wondered, horrified, if he’d actually sniffed the poor guy.

Let’s get this over with, Phillip said as he turned away and walked off down the hallway, leaving Colby a clear view of a saggy bottom. Although Colby had no doubt that the unfortunate effect was down to the mass of material on the overly large joggers and not the gentleman’s actual arse. Not that the jogging bottoms were ever likely to be put to the use they were intended, not from the way Phillip bore all his weight on the hospital-issue metal crutch or the pronounced limp as he led Colby toward the stairs.

Yet put him in some decent-fitting clothes, get a few healthy meals inside him, and let him see the sun, and Colby suspected he would find his host exactly to his liking. Physically, at least.

You might wish to go first. Phillip gestured toward the upstairs landing. It can take me a while.

But if you go first and you fall, I’d be there to catch you.

Distracted by that thought, Colby muttered, Sure. He squeezed past Phillip and made short work of the stairs. When he reached the landing, he looked back to find Phillip two steps up, his hand gripping the banister, gaze fixed in Colby’s vicinity.

Bedroom is first on the right, Phillip told him, raising his eyes to meet Colby’s before glancing away. I’ve left the door to the dressing room open. Just go in, and take a look.

The fleeting thought that Phillip might have been checking him out disappeared completely when he heard the words dressing room. Had he hit the mother lode? Is that okay?

I wouldn’t have made the offer otherwise, Phillip snapped. I don’t want you here all day.

Phillip dropped his gaze, focusing on the next step of his arduous climb, and muttered something Colby couldn’t make out clearly but sounded like been a while since I had a man in my bedroom.

I’d have said you were more a polo man myself, rather than rugby, Colby said. Not moving from his position at the top of the stairs, he watched Phillip continue his gruelling climb. Despite sensing that much of his host’s intention in sending him on ahead was to avoid Colby witnessing his awkward and painful-looking ascent, he couldn’t move away. Or are you saying I look like I’ve been stepped on in the huddle of the scrum one too many times? Colby squashed his nose to the side and tugged on one ear so it stuck out from under his hair.

Phillip made a noise that could have been a bark of laughter or a wheezing breath. Sure. You’re pug ugly. I watch for their thighs, not their faces. Phillip faltered, his eyes narrowing and shuttering his expression from Colby’s gaze. And if you’re planning on beating up the gay cripple, remember I know where you work.

Stereotyping, much? I love the game, but you’re right, the thighs can be very distracting. Although generally, I prefer my men on the skinnier end of the spectrum. And short enough to tuck under my chin. You know, when we slow dance.

Watching Phillip’s expression of shocked realization was fun, but he was on a time limit. With a cheeky wink and a grin, Colby turned his attention to locating the bedroom. First on the right, Phillip had said.

What the hell am I doing? Flirting with a customer? I don’t flirt. And I certainly don’t slow dance. It was true; he had two left feet, and whenever he actively tried to flirt, it turned into a failure of epic proportions.

He attempted to drown out the breathless cursing that accompanied each thud and drag below him. Not so easily done when every fibre of his being wanted to scoot back down the stairs and offer Phillip his arm.

Or toss the shorter man over his shoulder and carry him up the stairs.

Chapter Two

Certain his host wouldn’t appreciate the offer of being carried up the stairs, Colby set about locating the bedroom. A tremor of excitement accompanied each step across the landing until Colby’s stomach fairly fizzed with the anticipation of what he would find in the room.

A cacophony of vibrant colours greeted Colby as he stepped into the bedroom. The sun hitting the jewel-toned blues and greens of the curtains and matching bedding would encourage anyone lucky enough to spend the night in the room to wake up in a joyful, exuberant mood. A room where fun screamed from each furnishing and fixture. Not I’ve got a sex swing in the corner type fun, but laughter. Lots of laughter. Lazy afternoons exploring. Watching the changing light reflect colours over skin. Kissing until lips tingled, desire stretched to breaking point.

It was a room that was hard to reconcile with the drab man whose frustrated exhales could be heard drifting up the stairs.

Colby shook himself when he realized he’d all but laid himself naked on the bed in his head. An open door to his right drew his attention. Had the door been closed, he would have assumed it housed an en suite bathroom, but from his vantage point, he could already make out wardrobe doors and drawers. Striding eagerly to the entrance, Colby surveyed the floor-to-ceiling storage that could only have been made for the room. No flat pack or bedroom system here, the quality and attention to detail screamed bespoke.

Hesitantly, because he might have Phillip’s express permission to rummage but it still felt wrong without him being present, Colby stepped into the small room and slid open the nearest door, marvelling at the weight of it as the wood moved silently on its runners to reveal the treasure within.

Wow! Colby’s appreciative exclamation faded into a sigh as he reached for the closest piece of clothing—a crushed velvet single-breasted tuxedo jacket on a solid wooden hanger, no metal or plastic to be seen. He rubbed the aubergine material between thumb and forefinger. Quality. And lots of it. He flicked quickly through the first rail, giving a cursory glance at labels and stitching. Suits, waistcoats, jackets, and trousers. Mostly vintage if he was any judge, with a couple of labels for current designers whose work would be considered classic rather than fashionable. The top shelf displayed an array of hatboxes, each a work of art in itself. Colby reached up to take one from the shelf, the stretch pulling his shirt free of his chinos.

Like what you see? Phillip’s voice came from the doorway.

Colby glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch Phillip’s gaze on the exposed skin at his waistband. Maybe he should be asking that question, although he didn’t think it would be appreciated, not from the way his host’s mood had swung easily to anger at the slightest perceived insult. But he couldn’t resist letting the first stirrings of interest be known. He let his gaze travel the length of the man in front of him only to be met by a defiant glare that abruptly turned curious.

Do I recognize you from somewhere? Phillip Longhampton narrowed his eyes and considered Colby with an intensity that deepened the frown lines in his forehead.

I doubt it, unless you’ve been to my shop for any reason.

It certainly couldn’t have been from his former profession. This guy didn’t look like he would have any need for Colby’s award-winning, money-making fitness DVD—and accessories—Kickstart Life. Phillip Longhampton had the bone structure and build of the naturally slim. Not that physique had any bearing on who had bought into his fitness regime; apparently many skinny people had bought the DVD set to build and tone muscle. Hence the all-time bestseller label, the mortgage-free house—with swimming pool and home gym—and the bank balance.

And even if Phillip had bought all the DVDs and the workout clothes, or even the Healthy Juices to Kickstart Life book, he wouldn’t have seen Colby’s ugly mug anywhere on the packaging, the dust cover, or even leading the punishing workouts that he had so carefully devised for optimum results in a busy life. To quote the blurb.

"Is your shop on the Kings Road?"

God, no. Colby snorted, actually snorted—how embarrassing—and tried to cover the sound with a cough. The rents there are extortionate.

Mmm. An ad campaign a couple of years ago? Phillip mused, almost to himself. Are you a model?

Colby shook his head, struck dumb by his bad luck. Phillip obviously didn’t notice his discomfort.

Something to do with fitness. A DVD. The production company went with an over-muscled gym bunny as the face of the product in the end, but I remember wanting you. I mean, the model you remind me of.

No, the production company that had snapped up the initial copy of his workout DVD had insisted on using a different front man. The public wanted to be whipped into shape by a good-looking guy who was happy to exercise without a shirt to hinder the view of his oiled hairless chest and straining six-pack. Some ex-Army type who could be far more aggressive than Colby—who thought smiles and gentle encouragement produced much better results than shouting—would ever attempt to be. To be fair Colby had no desire to be recognized in millions of homes, from adverts and posters to the product range itself, and he could understand the backers’ concerns. And, as it was so tactfully pointed out to him, the people who paid out their hard-earned cash—and at £79.99 it was high-end price point fitness—wanted a role model to aspire to, not a fitness instructor who would look more at home on a building site. In San Francisco. Because you’re a member of the Village People, right?

If the ink hadn’t already been drying on the contract, Colby might have walked away at that slur on his sexuality, but thankfully he couldn’t. Thankfully, because little did he know at the time that one signature would give him the opportunity to walk away from a life where clients thought easy-going personal trainer equated to easy lay. Where cougars who believed their own promo and indecent relations with wannabes would try to bed him despite him being up front about his sexuality. Where aging queens tried to cop a feel and were often far more aggressive than the Z-listers on the wane who attempted to bed him in a last ditch attempt to get their name in the paper. All were shot down in flames, no matter how famous, good-looking, or bendy they might have been. Nobody got to use him to shore up a failing career. Colby had lost the occasional client that way, but those types were fly-by-nights who were rarely concerned with the serious business of fitness anyway.

You’re in advertising, then? Colby asked, trying to stop the conversation from veering into territory he didn’t want to explore.

Used to be.

And now? Colby couldn’t resist asking, despite Phillip’s curt response.

None of your bloody business.

Phillip’s response was accurate, if somewhat rudely put, so Colby returned his attention to the reason for his visit.

Carefully he removed one of the jackets from the rail and held it up against his body. Not that it would ever fit him, never in a month of Sundays. The slim-cut design was made for the narrow shoulders and nipped in waist of a waifish physique. He glanced over at Phillip, who still hovered in the doorway, but now appeared to be using the frame to hold himself up. He must have been a similar build to his father... No, not a parent. That bedroom belonged to a younger man. Brother? Lover? Someone as vibrant as the colours that adorned the room and confident enough to wear

Reviews for New Lease of Life

[regencyfan93 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Colby was so patient. It was good to see that Pip had someone in his life who did things at Pip's pace.