Unlike the studio, Mark Owen's little writing room at Delamere was not soundproofed. Gary had offered to get someone in to kit it out properly, more than likely his brother, but Mark had declined. He actually liked that he could hear the goings on in the house through the walls.
It was one thing about studios that had always unnerved him. How disconnected they were from the rest of reality. Unlike Gary Barlow who had grown up in a small town and never really lived more than a stones throw from the open countryside, Mark had been born and bred in the city. Yes alright he'd lived in Oldham, but by postcode only. He could have spat into a Manchester postcode from his bedroom window if he'd wanted to. Not that he ever had. The point was he'd always been around noise, and although he'd enjoyed the peaceful serenity of his house in the Lakes, he'd also found himself making noise just to fill the silence. His little studio there certainly hadn't been soundproofed, and he'd had something noisy in every room. A TV, a radio, a piano, a wind chime, a water feature, an executive toy; something, anything that could break the silence.
Now, anyone could be forgiven for thinking Delamere would suffer from the same excess of peace, and it did when there was nobody else home. The thing was, being alone in this house rarely ever happened. There was always someone in the house doing something, and with its age and construction, those sounds filtered through the entire building.
He liked that. He liked being able to sit in silence and still be able to hear the sounds of the house. The kids running around, Gary's heavier almost thumping footsteps, the murmur of a TV or Radio, bassy rhythms leaking from the studio.
Today though, being able to hear the sounds of the house made him edgy. He was grateful for it, but in a gut-clenchingly guilty way. Each creak of the floorboards in the hallway beyond the door made him tense, ready to close down what was on his screen in an instant should someone, should Gary, happen to walk in.
One foot braced on the leg of his desk, Mark leant back on his chair, tipping it dangerously as he re-read the words on his screen again and systematically destroyed each of his fingernails with his teeth.
The floorboard outside creaked again and Mark froze, thumb millimetres from his lips, his eyes darting to the door. Emily was at nursery. Daniel back at school after the summer break. Gary had set himself the task of sorting out his studio which had become something of a mess while he'd been distracted entertaining kids over the summer.
That was a lie. Gary's studio hadn't become anything of a mess. Gary was distracting himself. Finding things to do with his time now the kids were off his hands during the daytime and he had no work on. Mark would have offered to help, but Gary's studio was like his shed, and no man should invade another man's shed. He certainly shouldn't offer to help tidy it up. That was like the ultimate unwritten law of the man-code. Like sniffing around your best mates wife, or deliberately losing a game of darts because the other guy was having a crap day. It. Just. Was. Not. Done.
The footsteps outside grew closer but never slowed, passing his door without pause and trailing off as they headed towards the main house. Mark started to breathe again, his eyes ticking back to the screen in front of him. Back to the words standing out bold and bright black against stark accusing white. Block capital print and really terrible grammar.
MARKY!
ALBUMS AMAZING! FUCKIN LOVE IT!
DOCU? THEY SAID YOU WERE IN? ARE YOU? NOT FUCKIN' HAVING IT IF YOUR NOT.
CALL ME
ROB.
Somewhere in the man-code, Mark was pretty sure there were also whole sections on communicating with someone who had apparently made it their mission in life to utterly destroy your best friend / lover / partner's life. Well if not life, then at least his career. Yeah, he would put money on it. He would also put money on the fact that those sections would say much the same as they said about invading another man's shed. No. No. And a big fat 'are you insane? of course you don't!'
Scratching his chin, Mark let out a long indecisive sigh. Robert Peter Williams. Robbie Williams to millions, just Rob to him. Always just Rob.
There had been a time, that felt like yesterday and at the same time a lifetime ago when they'd been thick as thieves he and Rob. Brothers in all but blood. From that first day when they'd auditioned for Take That, hell it hadn't even been called Take That back then, there'd been an instant friendship. A bond forged in the fires of mutual humiliation as they'd witnessed each other's attempts to shoo their mothers away.
More than anyone else in Take That, he'd found a kinship with Rob. They'd been the children, while Gary, Jason and Howard had been the grown ups. Well alright, Gary had been the grown up and the rest of them had been imbeciles making Gary sigh and roll his eyes most of the time, but the dividing line had been there. Of course they'd done things together as a five, they'd all been friends, but everyone had their preferences when it came to the company they kept. Especially in the quiet moments.
Rob had been his preference, and for a while he'd been Rob's. They'd spent hours on balconies, on rooftops, in any quiet spot they could find, just nattering away, setting the world to rights; talking about everything, talking about nothing. Watching the craziness that their world had become whirl around them and marvelling at it all.
But that had been at the beginning. As time went on those times became fewer and farther between. They'd all started to get more involved in the music. Not writing it, oh no that had been Gary's domain without question. But going into the studio more not just when they were needed, leaning instruments, making suggestions. The tours had got bigger, the shows more elaborate and in need of more planning. All of them, except Rob. No Rob hadn't seemed to be interested. In fact, Mark could well remember how annoyed he'd started to get with Rob towards the end. How his indifference and blasé attitude had started to wear. How they'd all watched as Rob was pulled into this other world away from them. Annoyed and jealous. He seemed to be having so much fun, with these other people. With his pack of hanger-oners that grew steadily over the years. Not with him. Not with Mark.
He'd wanted to follow Rob, back then. Wanted to be part of that fun, but never felt like he could. Rob had never offered the hand of invitation, and that had hurt. Hurt enough that Mark's pride had stopped him asking. Looking back, that pride had probably saved him from walking roads he could do with never walking.
None of them had seen at the time, none of them had had a clue. Not really. All they'd seen was how much fun Rob had been having, been having. They hadn't known or understood the danger Rob was in. He felt bad about that now. He'd watched the life of this brother in all but blood unfold in the public eye and had been horrified. Not surprised deep down, but still horrified. And proud. Of course he was proud. How could he not be? What Rob had achieved in his career was incredible, beyond anything any of them had ever imagined.
Maybe, if things had been different. If his life had taken a different path, he could simply look back at his friendship with Rob with fondness. Maybe he'd simply miss him, their worlds too far apart for their lives to collide once more, and he would simply watch from the ground with a smile and best wishes. His life however, had not taken a different path.
His life had led him to Gary Barlow, and his only regret in that was that now he had to make a choice. It wasn't fair. it wasn't right, but it was how it was. Mark's eyes looked once again at the email and something like anger but slower and deeper burned in his chest. Frustration. Disappointment. Confusion. He thought back to the last time they'd spoken Face to face. The night after the gig at Knebworth. Two years ago. An idle conversation. Talking about music, about writing. He'd mentioned writing with Gary. Rob had made a comment Mark couldn't even remember now. Some pot shot. The kind of thing Mark had in the past let go over his head. He didn't know the ins and outs of the feud between them, he'd never wanted to know. But on that occasion he'd felt he'd had to say something.
"Rob, come on, just lay off on Gaz alright? He's havin' a hard time of it right now, he don't need you pouring salt in. You did hear about Dawn right?"
"I heard."
Two words. Not sympathetic, but then he hadn't expected sympathy. Not for Gary. Not from Rob. They hadn't been snarky or snide either. There had been no pantomime villain smirk. Just a simple statement of fact. Rob knew and he didn't care. Somewhere inside Mark had been a hope that he hadn't heard, that he hadn't known how bad off Gary was. But Rob knew, and he just kept the punches coming.
Live 8
The Brits
On Tour.
In Interviews.
Always a comment.
The closer he and Gary had become, the harder each of Rob's attacks had been to take, partly because between each one he'd forget, forgive, remember the old Rob from the early 90's and the pride would kick in again. Then he'd watch something else, read something else. The Brits this year. He'd watched for Rob, sat on the couch in the games room. Sat there and hoped with his entire being for Angels to be crowned the song of the last 25 years. Because it was a good song. Because it was Rob and Mark wanted to see his friend succeed.
Gary had gone to bed. Mark knew why, but it wasn't spoken of. He'd watched alone. He'd seen Matt Lucas and Davis Walliams as Gary and Howard and he'd borne it, because they didn't know and it didn't really matter. It was what it was. It wasn't personal.
"Sorry Gary, but I was always the talented member of the band..."
That was personal. He and Gary had been a couple for six weeks when that was said live on national TV. Rob had to have known. He didn't likely read the papers or magazines himself but someone would have said something to him. His once best friend shagging his arch nemesis? Mark snorted to himself at the ridiculousness of the statement but could somehow see that as how some of Rob's friends would take it, or at least presented it. It was grade A prime goading material. Rob had to have known, and even if he didn't give a rats arse how Gary felt about it, he had to have known it wasn't just Gary that the comment would hurt.
Even if he hadn't known they were a couple, he'd known Mark was living at Gary's. He'd known they were good friends. They may not have spoken face to face since Knebworth but they'd communicated sparingly via email, a couple of phone calls, Rob had even sent him a birthday card this year. It hadn't been addressed to his old address and forwarded, it had been sent here! God damn it! He knew. Of course he knew.
And while Rob knew and kept the comments coming, Gary never mentioned Rob at all. Sometimes Mark even got the feeling Gary thought he and Rob were more in touch than they actually were. Not because he'd ever said anything, but because Gary would move to turn the TV off if Rob came on, then pause to look at Mark before finding some pressing reason to not be in the room instead. An advert for Rob's album in a break in the film they were watching, he'd go and make a drink, a video on a music channel on in the background in the kitchen, he'd suddenly need the loo. If one of Rob's songs came on the radio when they were in the car, Mark had watched Gary's knuckles go white around the steering wheel, but he wouldn't turn it off. No, Mark had started doing that.
He did that because he wanted to. Because, although he had no idea the exact thoughts running through the blonde's head in those moments, he didn't want Gary upset. Gary never asked it of him. It wasn't with anger or resentment that Gary had left him to watch the Brits alone that night, even though he'd known all too well why Mark had wanted to watch. No, it had been with a smile and kiss, and when the show was over and he'd gone up to bed Gary had welcomed him to their bed with open arms, a few questions about the winners of various categories and a comment about how Mark had missed a cracking episode of CSI.
Dropping his chair back onto all four legs, Mark leaned forward and laid his hand over the computer's mouse, his eyes running all over the screen taking in the words once again. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. But he had to make a choice.
Gary would never say a word. No matter what contact he had with Rob, or what comments were made. Gary would keep his peace. But he shouldn't have to. If there was one person in the world Gary should be able to express his feelings to it should be his lover. If there was one person who should come to his defence it was his partner. His best friend.
There was no choice. It was only a choice because Rob was making him chose. Each attack forcing him to take sides in a battle he didn't understand. A battle one side didn't seem to want to fight at all. If Rob stopped attacking Gary, Mark wouldn't have to tie himself up in knots every time they spoke.
The mouse slid across the screen with ease to the little trashcan.
Standing up he drew a deep breath through his nose and with more resolve than sadness he headed towards the door. Towards the man he loved, the family he adored.
Time to see if Gary wanted a cuppa.
There was no choice.