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Reg's Reflections

Chapter 5

Notes:

I vaguely recall someone asking whether I was going to do a remix of 'Bertie's Blog' from Jeeves' prespective (I am so sorry that I can't remember who you were! OTL)
Anyway, I have done as such for at least one pivotal scene.

Chapter Text

The contents of my fiancé’s blog tend to come up quite frequently in conversations with family and friends. Bertram is a true raconteur – his instinct for humour and illustrative language has made his writing a sensation on-line. And while he is so ready to dismiss his own innate intelligence, I am equally eager to extol his unique linguistic genius.

One particularly popular narrative of his is the story of our first meeting – a blessed encounter that is coming up on its fourth anniversary. While Bertram’s account is blithe and amusing and most flattering to myself, it is also marked by his somewhat naïve cognition. My own experience of that happy evening was markedly different, and I will attempt to recount the occurrence below.

I was at the tail end of an exhausting case involving the will of a recently deceased and very wealthy earl. In life, he had sired offspring with several wives and mistresses, and had fostered a number of alliances with the shareholders of his company. In the past, I had implored him to revise this feebly-worded will, to no avail. The result was a fracas between his great mob of benefactors, the likes of which frayed my last nerve and monopolised every one of my waking hours.

On this drizzly April afternoon, the final batch of antique tchotchkes from his estate was neatly squared away. Paul, Bea and myself had shared a round of Pret-A-Manger lattes to celebrate, and ruminated on what new feud our clients would be delivering on the morrow.

After a few more hours of emails and placating phone calls, I set forth for home. The moment I squeezed myself onto a muggy tube carriage at Blackfriars station, my mind instantly roved to the rogan josh that I had put in my slow cooker that morning. This dish was a special treat from my childhood. Due to my grandparents’ vegetarian diet, my mother did not often prepare it, and so its presence at the dinner table was a rare and significant event.

As I clutched the handrail, dreaming of tender lamb and fresh steaming rice, I strained to ignore a young couple standing next to me who were engaged in a lurid bout of tongue kissing. Public displays of affection have never sat well with me, and in such a confined space I felt the exhibit was decidedly distasteful. Particularly at the moment when the train jostled on the track, sending the still lip-locked offenders crashing into my mid-section. For the rest of the journey, I positioned my briefcase as an effective shield against them.

I alighted from the train, and my mood was growing increasingly foul. I was weary in mind and body, sick of the presence of other people, desperate for precious solitude.


My mind roved to the last phone conversation I’d had with my mother, on the previous weekend. She had pitched to me the same old screed: worried that I was working myself too hard, that I was lonely, that I simply must find myself a boyfriend who could take care of me. That last point had been an oft-laboured issue with her. My habit of seeking company in the form of brief hook-ups did not sit well with her (I suspect my cherished yet talkative sister Scarlett had fed her this intelligence). Conversely, I had no desire for a settled, traditional romantic relationship. My little row house in Fulham, hard-earned and tranquil, was my own fortress of solitude – a sacred habitat that I took pride in tending to and roosting in on my own, to my own exact liking. The prospect of having to share it with anyone for more than a single evening was abhorrent.

At that time, I stubbornly held to the belief that I was simply unfit for coupling: an entirely independent and reserved soul. No nagging, needy boy-toy could compare to the steady comfort of a quiet evening spent with a glass of merlot and an improving book. And if these trappings did come with an occasional pang of dejection, I would simply have to bear it like a grown man.

I drifted up my street in the gathering dark, fixated on the promise of a comfortable chair and a slow-cooked curry. As I approached my front door, I spied a tall, lean, flustered figure pacing outside the adjacent house.
My neighbour, Mr Fittleworth, had advised me that a friend of his would be occupying the place during his extended stay in America. I chanced to presume that this fellow, youthful and fretful and clad in an unfortunate purple hoodie, was that friend. All the better to be sure, and ward him off lest he be a prospective home invader.
‘Are you alright, sir?’

The young man whipped around to face me. ‘Ah… what ho, I mean good evening!’
He smiled, and my knees almost buckled. What ho indeed.
While I deeply despise colourism, and I will ardently sing the praises of the undeniable beauty of dark men at any opportunity, it is equally true to say that I, Reginald Jeeves, am an utter fool for a blue-eyed blond.

I now saw that he possessed the same sort of guileless, frivolous countenance of most of Mr Fittleworth’s visiting peers, so I was in no doubt of his authenticity. I also took in the casual spill of loose, soft curls over a fine fair brow, a long smooth neck, and improbably large expressive eyes. Suddenly my hunger was pulled in a different direction.

His predicament was a simple one to resolve, and his fawning gratitude only served to fan the fire that had started in the pit of my belly. My former grouchiness forgotten, I was all too happy to grant him with my warmest civility, and share with him my bounty of rogan josh.
To be plain, my intention in that moment was to entice the beautiful boy into sharing my bed for the night, as well.

Bertram’s blog has quite faithfully recounted a good portion of our conversation over dinner – as its readers would know, he and I agreed to meet again on Sunday, for a lesson in basic cookery. I now felt my initial lust begin to cool a little. The revelation of his domestic helplessness had strangely served as both a slight turn-off and an endearment – some manner of tender, protective feeling arose, a desire to help this poor lost man-child.

Our conversation continued as we scraped our plates clean. I surmise that Bertram failed to recount the following passage, given his still raw feelings on the subject that was breached.

I caught his gaze, delivering a less-than-virtuous stare.
‘Mr Wooster, may I enquire if you are currently single?’
My intent went right over his head. His sunny bearing quickly darkened, and he stabbed at an errant slice of onion on his plate.
‘Decidedly so. I just came out of a rather nasty break-up, you see. From my ex-fiancé.’

This information struck me. ‘I am sorry to hear of your troubles.’
‘Oh, I suppose it was for the best. We barely saw each other, day-to-day. He’s a professional athlete, and was always off at some game or practice session or photo-shoot or another. Left me for his secretary, don’t you know.’

I had heard chatter in passing of a Mr Harold Winship, quite crassly dubbed the ‘token queer’ of Chelsea Football Club, who had recently abandoned his male betrothed to elope with his female P.A. to Ibiza. Beholding the sweet, magnanimous creature before me, I had to wonder at this Winship’s reasoning.

‘What’s more,’ Bertram continued, drawing a long finger through his remaining curry sauce, ‘my Aunt Agatha tried to cart me along on a trip through Eastern Europe, with the intention of finding me some hapless bride. I mean imagine, Jeeves! Being shackled to a dope like me for life, when you don’t even speak English! Come to think of it, even native English speakers have remarked on what an unintelligible windbag I can be.’

That protective, sympathetic feeling in me was rising keenly. While the prospect of bedding Bertram was still greatly appealing, it had already been eclipsed by something larger. It was a given that he would not be a guest in my home for a mere single night: our current status as next door neighbours, and the cooking lessons I had offered, ensured that our association would be a sustained one. The more I learned about him, the more I saw how fraught his current situation was. Beset by fresh heartbreak, peers who exploited his generosity, and worst of all, aunts. I could see that Bertram did not need some lecherous cad taking advantage of his loneliness: he needed a friend in his corner.

As we cleared the table, I made a deliberate decision. I set aside my half-formed fantasies of ravishing his lovely form (including ripping off that vile purple hoodie), and instead gave him an applied lesson on how to correctly stack a dishwasher.
‘I say, Jeeves, I hadn’t even thought of putting the cups and mugs upside-down like that! I always ended up having to rinse out all the cloudy dishwater from them.’
‘Most unfortunate, Mr Wooster.’

I walked him back to Mr Fittleworth’s front door. The chill of the night painted an appealing rose upon his cheeks.
‘Well, then. Thanks ever so for, well, everything, really. You really were my knight in shining armour tonight, what?’
‘I am gratified to hear it.’

His eyes met mine for a brief silent moment. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to kiss him then and there.
‘So. Toodle-pip, old thing.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Wooster.’

When I returned home, my fortress of solitude felt cold and bereft, in a way that it never had before.

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