Trick of Time

By JL Merrow

A contemporary man finds an unlikely chance at love with a rent boy in Victorian London in this gay time-shift romance.

When Ted Ennis steps out the doors of the Criterion Theatre for a cigarette and finds himself in Victorian London, he begins to doubt his sanity. At first he thinks it's all a film set, and is sure that the strikingly handsome young man leaning against a lamppost must be the leading man . . .


What starts as a sordid transaction with a beautiful rent boy quickly turns into something much deeper. Ted finds himself drawn back to Jem time and again. As they get to know each other, Ted craves more meaningful encounters.


But Ted doesn't understand the exact conditions necessary for his trips through time—and for Jem, time may actually be running out. Now Ted has one last shot to get back to Jem and save their relationship, before it's too late . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jan 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781426895005

JL Merrow

JL Merrow is that rare beast, an English person who refuses to drink tea. She read Natural Sciences at Cambridge, where she learned many things, chief amongst which was that she never wanted to see the inside of a lab ever again. Her one regret is she never mastered the ability of punting one-handed whilst holding a glass of champagne. She writes across genres, with a preference for contemporary gay romance and the paranormal, and is frequently accused of humour. For more information, please visit jlmerrow.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

God, I needed a cigarette.

We’d had trouble with the props—Dick Buskin and Jack Rover had been larking about before curtain playing at swordfights, and one of the idiots had broken Thunder’s cane. If it hadn’t been for the old lady in row C being a game old dear who let me borrow her walking stick, he’d have been left to bluster without it. When the curtain finally went up, I breathed a sigh of relief, and reached shakily for the cigarette packet in my pocket.

One of these years, I’d give it up, I promised myself. Probably not while I worked in the theatre, though.

I had to smile, because even on days like this, I couldn’t imagine wanting to leave, now I’d found my place here. I’d spent most of my twenties working in a bank, trying to please my parents. But that was before the accident that left me an orphan and a widower in a screech of twisted metal and broken lives... I took a deep breath and leaned against the cool, tiled wall, drawing strength from its solidity and permanence.

The Criterion Theatre was an oasis of old-fashioned elegance set in—or more precisely, underneath—bustling Piccadilly Circus, with its hordes of language students, day-trippers and city folk out west to dip their toes in the decadence of Soho. I’d been a bit effusive about the Cri the day I started working here as a theatre assistant. It was a not particularly glorified euphemism for general dogsbody, and yes, I was too old for the job. But Rob, the house manager, was a friend. A good friend, willing to give me a chance when half the world looked on me as unemployable, what with the tremors in my hand, the dizzy spells and the often-slurred speech that only got worse under pressure. There were a fair few days when I agreed with them.

Rob had raised a world-weary eyebrow at my raptures about the place. Theatres? They’re all much of a muchness, really.

Not this place. The Cri was different, from the pink plush of the auditorium to the ornate Art Deco styling of the box office. I took the stairs two at a time, past the walls tiled in sepia and green, each panel framing the name of a composer of days gone by. The Criterion had been planned as a concert hall but repurposed as a theatre before opening night. Maybe this was why I liked the Cri so much—like me, she was a leopard who’d changed her spots.

Cherubs smiled down at me from where they frolicked on the ceiling, and Terpsichore played her lyre with silent serenity as I passed. I resisted the urge to run my fingers along the ornate tiles—Rob was watching from the box office.

Going out for a smoke, Ted? he asked with a knowing smile. You know, you’re not getting paid to sort out the props. Let Miri sweat it next time.

I shrugged and patted my back pocket, reassuring myself my cigarettes hadn’t jumped out when I wasn’t looking. If it’d been half an hour earlier in the evening, I’d have managed without a smoke, but anyone arriving this late for the show would have more to worry about than me smoking outside the theatre and making the place look untidy. I shouldered through the heavy front door, popping a cigarette in my mouth and fumbling in my pockets for my matches...and found Piccadilly Circus full of ghosts.

I stared, the cigarette almost dropping out of my mouth in amazement. I’d always thought there ought to be something more, something beyond this shallow world of fragile lives and shattered dreams. But to see it confirmed was like being hit with a tsunami in the bathtub.

Gone were the garish neon signs, the buses, the endless ravening packs of tourists. Even Eros no longer pranced naked on his plinth, ready to shoot his poisoned darts of love at the unwary. I stopped dead, bewildered, as my hands mechanically carried on the business of lighting my cigarette.

It was dark—far darker than normal. The streetlamps were lit but they were short, stubby, quaint little things, giving only a feeble yellow glow, not their usual chilly bright whiteness. The buildings, too, were dark—where were the plate glass windows spilling out light to entice passers-by into shops and restaurants?

Despite the gloom, I could still make out the strange attire of the people who strolled around the Circus. They looked like they’d stepped out of the pages of a Charles Dickens novel—top hats on the gents, flat caps on the working-class lads and bonnets on the few ladies I saw, their full skirts brushing the ground as they walked. And the smell... Could hauntings have smells? This one reeked of horse shit and coal smoke, not the petrol fumes and pungent fast-food aromas I was used to. I took a drag on the cigarette I’d been so desperate to get outside for then yanked it out of my mouth to stare at it suspiciously.

It still looked like a Gauloise. It even tasted like one.

I ground it out beneath my heel for safety and took a wary step forward. Caution was definitely required. Horse-drawn carriages clattered around the Circus, leaving their bucolic pollution in the streets. As I left the shelter of the building, my gaze was drawn to a tall young man leaning against the nearest lamppost. He stood gilded by its shallow pool of light, his face absurdly beautiful in profile, as if Eros had sprung to life and leapt from his plinth.

My breath caught. Perhaps he heard it for he looked up, directly at me. Could he see me? Could ghosts see real people?

No, this was madness. They must be filming here or something, and I simply hadn’t heard. Rob was probably laughing himself silly at the thought of me walking out here unwarned. I wondered, trying not to cringe at my own gullibility, what sort of production it was and why I couldn’t see the crew.

The young man straightened and stepped forward. He was dressed in clothes far more formal than any I’d worn since my days of college and May Balls—or the day Alasdair and I stood up to announce our commitment to the world. I took a deep breath. Enough of ghosts.

My present companion had on a single-breasted jacket that was open to display a dark waistcoat and a sort of white cravat. His clothes suited the scene a damned sight better than my jeans and T-shirt—suited the temperature better too; I shivered and wrapped my arms about myself. He had dark hair, slightly curly, and a full mouth, bringing to mind the cherubs from the Cri’s ceilings. His features, though, were far finer than theirs, his elegant cheekbones starkly visible, not hidden by a layer of puppy fat. He was a pared-down Lord Alfred Douglas, the highborn beauty who’d brought a playwright to his knees.

My lip quirked in a self-mocking smile. I was no Oscar Wilde, that was for sure.

The lad looked me up and down slowly then smiled without warmth, showing crooked teeth that were disconcertingly engaging—a touch of flawed humanity in that perfect face.

Then he spoke. Oi, piss off, will yer? This is my patch.

There was a moment of disconnect, his gutter tones jarring with the elegance of his clothes. Then it hit me how threadbare the jacket was on close inspection, how his trousers showed signs of sagging at the knees; the neck cloth, washed-out stains—and it all came together. I laughed self-consciously. Sorry, I honestly didn’t know. No one told me. But well done for staying in character. You’re a rent boy, right?

Piccadilly had been a prime spot for that kind of trade, back in Victorian times. Even Time Out will tell you that.

Alarm flared in the lad’s eyes and he glanced around furtively before stepping up close. Shut yer bleeding mouth, will you? You want to get the rozzers down on us?

I backed off, holding up my hands. Sorry. I’ll disappear, all right? Don’t want to mess up the shoot.

His eyes narrowed. You’re cracked, you are.

Sorry, I said again and turned, although I was reluctant to leave him despite his unfriendliness. Maybe I could catch a word with him during a break in filming? Find out more about the film they were shooting. About him.

Glancing at the Criterion’s frontage, I

[tonifgmamtc · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is a sweet time travel romance. It did an excellent job of holding my attention and keeping me entertained. I enjoyed it very much.

[charming2020 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed this time travel audiobook. Ted was, perhaps, a little impulsive and slow on the uptake, but I blamed it on his closed head injury. Jem is charming and lovable. I really appreciated that he was able to believe Ted about being from the future (or at least not care). I was very glad they didn't stay in Victorian England. Too many time travel books go that route without appreciating the implications.