“Don’t mind me,” says Jamie.  “I’ll just be over there wi’ my Captain.”  He saunters across the taproom, and Jack tries not to watch him doing it.

Tom’s upper lip is glistening with sweat.  “Listen, Jack.  Don’t over-react, or nothing, but...”

Jack makes a face of aggrieved innocence.  Over-react?  Me?

“...But I think that Jamie’s a bit... well, he’s quite... he’s pretty.  You can’t deny it.  He’s pretty.”

Just because it’s the last thing Tom expects him to say, Jack says, “He is.  He’s fuckin’ pretty.”

Tom looks suitably amazed, and wary too, as though Jack’s setting him up in a trap.  Cautiously, he goes on: “An’ he’s been giving me the eye all evening.”

“Till I walked over.”

“Well.  Aye.”

“At which point,” notes Jack idly, “he started giving it to me.”

If Tom was surprised before, he’s twice as surprised now.  Jack finds it enormously gratifying.

“Exactly,” says Tom, still wary. “So fuck off, will you? ‘Cos I reckon...”  Tom’s a study, he can’t hide a thing, that lad.  “I reckon if I play my cards right he’ll do any bloody thing I fancy.  Reckon I could get him to, to put his mouth... Oh, you know...”

Jack does know.  He knows very well.  And really, if Jamie’d been a girl, Jack’d never have even considered pushing his way in like this.  He looks at Tom consideringly, taking a long draught of beer.  Hmmm.

Is Jack a good mate?  Or a crap one?

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