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    Duet
    Duet
    Duet
    Ebook121 pages1 hour

    Duet

    By Chris Quinton

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Once burned, twice shy, John hasn’t dared to act on his attraction to Simon, until the chance to sing a famous duet sets their friendship on fire.
    The echo of a centuries-old love, unheard by most, brightens Simon's life. Then John picks up the melody and finds the words to their song. When music decides to write a love song... it's a duet.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherChris Quinton
    Release dateJan 7, 2021
    ISBN9781005807580
    Duet
    Author

    Chris Quinton

    Chris Quinton  Chris started creating stories not long after she mastered joined-up writing, somewhat to the bemusement of her parents and her English teachers. But she received plenty of encouragement. Her dad gave her an already old Everest typewriter when she was ten, and it was probably the best gift she'd ever received – until the inventions of the home-computer and the worldwide web. Chris's reading and writing interests range from historical, mystery, and paranormal, to science-fiction and fantasy, writing mostly in the male/male genre. She also writes the occasional male/female novel in the name of Chris Power. She refuses to be pigeon-holed and intends to uphold the long and honourable tradition of the Eccentric Brit to the best of her ability. In her spare time [hah!] she reads, or listens to audio books while quilting or knitting. Over the years she has been a stable lad [briefly] in a local racing stable and stud, a part-time and unpaid amateur archaeologist, a civilian clerk at her local police station and a 15th century re-enactor. She lives in a small and ancient city not far from Stonehenge in the south-west of the United Kingdom, and shares her usually chaotic home with an extended family, three dogs, a Frilled Dragon [lizard], sundry goldfish and tropicals

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      Book preview

      Duet - Chris Quinton

      Duet

      Copyright © 2021 by Chris Quinton

      First Publication: January 2021

      Cover Image by Black Jazz Design

      Editor: G.C.

      This book uses UK English.

      With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the Author, Chris Quinton.

      Piracy is Theft

      The royalties from the sale of my books helps to support my family and pay essential bills. If you like this story, please spread the word, but please don't share it.

      This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

      Dedication

      To the Usual Suspects - thank you for your support, nags, kicks in the arse,

      copious amounts of tea, beer, wine, and encouragement.

      You make writing even more of a pleasure.

      ~*~

      With special thanks to Garrett Leigh of Black Jazz Design, who stepped in

      at my Hour of Need when I was panicking.

      Contents

      Dedication

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      About the Author

      Bibliography

      Chapter One

      "‘We three Kings of Orient are…’" we carolled, baritone Luke, countertenor Mark, and me the tenor. It had become something of our signature song, ever since Matthew, our oldest brother, had sloped off to sing with the London Philharmonic Choir. I’m John and we’re the King brothers, and if I say so myself, our voices blended pretty much perfectly, even though we were shivering in our boots.

      Salisbury Guildhall Square was jolly enough with the Christmas Market and late-night shopping in full swing, but the biting December wind on this Thursday evening made it no place to be standing about, unless it was for a good cause. In our case, the good cause was the Albert Kennedy Trust for homeless LGBTQ kids. Every year one of us picks a charity. This year it was my turn, and we’d be here every Thursday evening until Christmas Day with the charity’s name emblazoned on our rainbow-painted collection buckets.

      We were grouped at the top of the Guildhall steps, and the colonnaded portico gave us some shelter from the wind. Our voices carried well, despite the hubbub of the Christmas Market crowds in the large Square. We had a substantial audience gathered around below us, and they were generous with their donations in the collection buckets if Mum’s and Helen’s smiles were anything to go by. Dad couldn’t be with us: choir night at St Thomas’s, getting ready for the carol services.

      Also, more than a few phone cameras were recording us for posterity, or more likely a brief local trend on the internet. We segued into Ding Dong Merrily on High, encouraging the crowd to join in. They did, with gusto, probably fuelled by all the mulled wine stalls. Then Mark soloed Once in Royal David’s City, his high clear voice soaring out over the crowd, and a hush fell. 

      Singing a cappella isn’t easy, but Dad was the choirmaster at St Thomas’ Church, and we’d been doing it for years, long before our voices broke. Only Matthew and Mark were professionally trained, having earned their Master of Arts degrees at the Royal Academy of Music in London, no less. Mark could take the tenor line as easily as the countertenor, though of course we’d teased him unmercifully about the history of the castrati. His five kids with his wife, Emma, and the one due in a couple of months, were evidence enough that his vocal range was a natural gift that had been fine-tuned by good teaching, rather than aided by a sharp knife, so we pulled his leg about starting his own choir. That’s what brothers are for, right? The fact that four of those kids were two sets of twins, which ran in Emma’s family, meant nothing.

      Luke’s fiancée, Helen Ward, possessed a lovely soprano voice, and her brother Simon was another baritone, though I’d never heard him sing. I didn’t know Simon as well as I would have liked. He was more Luke’s friend, but rarely joined in with the rest of the family. He wasn’t standoffish, rather he gave the impression of being—shy was the wrong word—distanced?

      So, yes, I didn’t know him well, but oh, how I wanted to. My last relationship had been over for many months, the hurt Adam Trent had inflicted was long since healed, and I’d begun to think about rejoining the dating pool. Casual hookups weren’t on my To Do list, never had been, and Simon fascinated me. Though I couldn’t work out what it was about him that had caught my attention. God knew Simon was easy on the eyes, and good company when he did show up, but I don’t think he approved of me. He never met my gaze for more than a few seconds, and hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words to me in the two years we’d known him.

      Oh, well, it’s his loss, I consoled myself every time he didn’t so much as return my smile. I’m gay, he’s gay. I’m an unattached, reasonably fit, averagely good-looking twenty-something blue-eyed blond, the only blond in the auburn family, and he’s the same. Well, apart from his brown eyes and dark brown hair. I taught Maths and Music at Wyvern College, a secondary school in Laverstock on the edge of Salisbury, while Simon owned and ran Musicality, a music and record shop in the city itself. He also gave private tuition on piano and guitar on the side. From what Helen had said—repeatedly—he and I had a lot in common. But I had resigned myself ages ago to the fact that he simply wasn’t interested.

      My solo was next: The Holly and the Ivy, and it received a gratifying amount of applause. By this time in the evening, some of the stalls were beginning to close down, but our audience didn’t diminish. If anything, it grew. Which was fine by us. As long as people were interested, we’d keep on singing.

      How about something more modern? someone yelled from the back of the crowd. And non-Christmassy, yeah? A hand was raised, clutching a few banknotes. I got fifty quid here. Sing my choice, and this goes in your bucket. A gust of surprise ran through our audience, and a few people moved to reveal a stout bald man grinning up at us. He looked to be in his late thirties, maybe forties, and metal glinted in his ears and eyebrows. Harry Monroe. He ran UpTown, a local nightclub we visited sometimes. Well, more than sometimes. Their karaoke evenings were fun.

      Hi, Harry, Luke called. You’re on. Hit us.

      Are you sure? I muttered.

      It’ll be fine, Luke assured me out of the corner of his mouth.

      You traditionalists have heard of Pentatonix, right? Harry moved to the front of the crowd. "I like their version of The Sound of Silence. Think you could cover it?"

      I let out a sigh of relief. He knew we could. We’d karaoke’ed it a few times at his club.

      We can manage that, Luke said. Stand by with your bucket, Mum. The crowd cheered, and then fell silent.

      Luke did the lead-in, adding a growl to his voice that put even more of an edge to the already powerful lyrics.

      The pause when we finished was rewarding, as were the applause and whistles that surged up. Then someone waved a tenner and shouted for Do They Know It’s Christmas? That started a trend. The crowd doubled its size, and the next half a dozen songs were requests. Luckily we knew them all. The donation buckets received the bounty. 

      Mark stepped up and announced our finale, Here We Come A-Wassailing. Before I could take the lead, another hand was raised. This time it held what looked like a cheque book, not a banknote.

      Five hundred, the man shouted. Those were magic words, and a space opened up around him. He was bundled up in a long black coat and a red scarf. His untidy mane of white hair painted a stark contrast against them. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t put a name to him. And a challenge. Let’s raise the tone a little and go back in time. Do you guys sing the classics?

      Yes, Mark said. Some of them, he added cautiously. What did you have in mind? Hell, for five hundred we’d sing, and dance, Three Little Maids From School Are We.

      But Gilbert and Sullivan’s Golden Oldies weren’t the ones he meant. "Au Fond du Temple Saint, he said. In English or French, I’m not fussy. Knock it out of the park, and I’ll add another zero." Wide-eyed, we stared at each other. Mark and Luke looked as stunned as I felt. The crowd gasped and whispered, called out to others. The few stalls that had been piping Christmas carols in competition, stopped. Suddenly it seemed as if all the market’s customers and stall holders were there, waiting with bated breath.

      That’s a duet for tenor and baritone. Mark glanced

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