Love on the Dancefloor

by Liam Livings

  Feeling as if I should shuffle off to the toilet and remain there until we left, and sensing there was an expectation for me to speak, I said, “It’s lovely to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you both.”

  “All of it lies, I’m sure,” she shot back instantly, like a cannonball over the deck of a ship. She laughed. “Sorry, a little private joke.” She stared at Paul.

  Paul visibly shrank from her gaze.

  I remembered Paul’s response when I’d first asked if I’d meet his parents, like he’d met mine, if we were all in, if we were taking it seriously, this whole relationship thing, and Paul had said simply, “I tend to keep her away from friends. It’s usually best. She’s wicked, but not in the way you’d want her to be. If she were an animal, she’d eat her own young.”

  Of course, at the time, I hadn’t believed that for an instant, so had insisted on meeting her. Now, in the conservatory, with cannonballs firing over my head, running out of conversation and a feeling of awkwardness slowly unfurling itself like a long, black snake emerging from a basket, I wished I’d taken Paul’s advice and left this until absolutely necessary, whenever that would have been in the far, far distant future.

  “The biggest disappointment of it all,” she continued, “was not having any grandchildren.” She shook her head slowly, moving closer to Paul to wipe a crumb from his mouth and hold his cheek for slightly too long for his comfort. Turning to him, she said, “No chance of you going out with the girl you were friends with from school?”

  Paul said, tiredly, his whole body showing me he’d said this dozens of times before, “I was eleven. She was eleven. I am gay. I will be gay forever. No girlfriends. That’s how it works, Mother. I’m seeing Tom.”

  Seeing? That’s at least one click down from dating, isn’t it? Definitely more casual than ‘going out with’, I’m sure. I knew it wouldn’t be long until Paul saw the error of his ways and realised he was a good eight or nine and I was, being generous, probably a six or seven.

  “Yes, but darling, I do always live in hope—hope you’ll do something worthwhile, worth reporting to us, worthy of bringing home.” She glanced in my direction. “I don’t mean to be rude, dear Tom, but you must understand the disappointment a mother feels when one finds out one will be denied grandchildren.” Clasping her heart, she said, “Punctured, I felt.”

  I knew it best not to respond to that, so instead said, “Mum wasn’t fussed. She said it means she doesn’t ever have to be Granny, or Nanny. She can stay forever a bit young, like I will. Peter Pan syndrome, she called it. Sounded fun whatever it was.” I smiled at Paul’s mother, wishing I could reduce her to a pool of melted goo and smoke like the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz. I quickly told myself off for having such an uncharitable thought.

  Frowning at me, she said, “What do your parents do? I believe Paul has told us, but somehow I’ve a mind like a sieve, and it has simply slipped through.”

  “Dad works for the council, doing roads and repairs. Mum looks after him and the house. Does a bit of ironing for neighbours too.”

  “The council?” Her tone was of undisguised disgust. “And which council is this?”

  “Lewisham.” And now, not only did I feel inadequate but I felt it on behalf of my parents too. Christ on a bike, why did I agree to this?

  She sipped her drink and collected one tiny smoked salmon nibble from the passing, terrified serving girl as she slunk past, shoulders hunched, shrinking from Marilyn’s touch. “I thought you lived in London.”

  “I do. Brockley is London. Lewisham is the same borough we live in.” I thought she was joking, then remembered Paul’s advice that she rarely joked. “London Borough of Lewisham. South East London.”

  “How extraordinary. Did you know this, Roger? Lewisham—a whole new part of London we’ve yet to explore. We must make a trip there to see what this so-called Lewisham is all about.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t make a special trip for it. I wouldn’t go through the West End to visit Lewisham. It’s not that…well, it’s…” I stopped talking, not knowing where I wanted to go with that sentence. It had somehow left me marooned in the middle of a conversation I neither wanted to continue nor knew quite how to get out of. Where was my conversational life raft when I needed it?

  Roger dived into the silence with an enthusiastic, “We must go. Check it out. Perhaps we could drop in on your parents. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

  Marilyn shook her head very slightly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Roger. I’m sure Tom’s parents have better things to do than entertain us at the drop of a hat.”

  “I didn’t mean just drop in on them. It would be arranged. A time, a place. An occasion.”

  Under her breath, Marilyn said, “What occasion would there be to go there?”

  Paul shot her a look of daggers. “We can soon go.”

  Marilyn checked her watch. “It is dragging on rather, isn’t it? This. Are we done? It’s such a blessed relief.” She put her drink down and strode from the conservatory, her heels making a clacking noise on the tiled floor. “Paul, do tell us when you’ve decided what you’re doing with your life.”

  “Later. It’s still a work in progress. Playing it by ear. I don’t want to get stuck with something I’d hate in five years’ time.” He turned to me. “Sorry. She’s no manners. I did say we needn’t have bothered.” He leant forward and whispered, “Let’s go out and get on it, forget all this terrible shit.”

  “On a Wednesday night? I don’t think so.” I nodded towards Roger, who was chewing a mouthful of canapé and sipping champagne while thoughtfully staring out at the garden.

  “Bye, Father, we’re off.” Paul put down his drink, took me by the hand and walked me out of the front door, into the middle of the green outside their house, where he knelt and shouted “FUCK!” at the top of his voice. “I’m so sorry. For them. For it. For everything. All that terrible shit. I should have persuaded you otherwise, but you wouldn’t believe me, would you?”

  “I couldn’t believe anyone’s parents could be as you’d described without them being part robot or wicked Disney villain.”

  “Wicked’s the right word. You won’t see them again.” He strode towards the Tube station.

  “Where you going?”

  “Anywhere except here. I don’t care. I just can’t be near them at the moment. I’m so sorry. I should have known. My fault. We won’t do it again. I’ll shield you from them.”

  “Not your fault. Stop apologising for other people. I’m sorry for forcing you into doing it. I thought it would be nice. How stupid was I?”

  “Don’t you apologise either, not for being you, for being optimistic, looking on the bright side you. That’s one of the reasons I like you.” He smiled.

  “Is it?”

  “You betcha. Fancy going The Bush?”

  “Shepherd’s Bush?”

  “Bit grittier and more urban than here. Check out the bars, see what shops are still open.”

  I shrugged. “Could do. But grittier? It ain’t got nothing on Lewisham. Lewisham takes your Shepherd’s Bush, raises it, like, three clicks and is still in another league of its own.”

  “Like you.” He held out his hand, beckoning for me to follow him, to jump on the Ferris wheel of our relationship and join him in the next adventure as we soared above the buildings of London together.

  “And you.” I held his hand and we made our way to Shepherd’s Bush together.

  I was still guarded about using the L-word with him, having been burned before, after I’d thrown it into the relationship mix never to see the guy again. I’d never felt this way about someone, about how we could do anything and nothing together and it still just flowed, went, rolled, and was…well, it was wicked.

  Did we argue? ’Course we argued. Who doesn’t argue? If you don’t argue with the person you’re going out with, it’s cos you don’t care enough to bother arguing. We argued about whose house we stayed over at after playing; w
e argued about which songs to include in the sets; we argued about whose turn it was to make the next round of drinks, or roll the cigarettes when we were particularly poor and unable to afford normal cigarettes. We argued when we’d see each other in the week for a snatched couple of hours, both exhausted from work but wanting to do more, jump each other’s bones, climb inside each other’s bodies, melt together like the candle wax on the first time, but we couldn’t. And we argued about who was the horniest, who wanted the other person the most. Oh yeah, we argued. But never about anything that mattered.

  We didn’t mention the evening in the conservatory ever again. It was like a murder we’d both committed.

  He continued seeing his parents when they were in together, while they continued paying him his small allowance, leaving him notes about whether he’d thought about going to university, or working with his father in property, or whether he’d consider a job his mother had found through one of her lunching circles, helping organise a charity ball. I said it didn’t sound so stupid; it would give him useful skills on party organising, especially if he wanted to go to Ibiza with me.

  One evening, after discussing him helping his mother out and putting on an event for her, Paul frowned. “Like that’s ever gonna happen.”

  “You never know,” I said. “If it makes her happy, do it. Make it an amazing, wicked, perfectly Paul charity ball. You could have a theme—you’d enjoy picking the music, I bet.”

  “For forty-somethings?” Paul shook his head. “Imagine them throwing some shapes and getting on it on the dance floor! I could dissolve some pink doves in the punch, see what happened then.”

  “Yeah, or you could organise it like a proper party, picking the music from the record store. You like all music, don’t you? Not just dance music.”

  “Yeah, I like the back catalogue, the history of it, the touch of the records, the crackle of the vinyl under the needle, the album art. There’s some wicked stuff from the seventies—big, brash, gatefold albums. I could theme it seventies. Or is that a bit naff? Is twenty years ago too soon for retro?”

  “Not if you do it right. Not if you do it well, like I’m sure you would.” I paused, allowing myself a small internal smile for my powers of persuasion. “Tell her you’ll do it. Of all the job suggestions they’ve given you, it’s the best. Give them a bone, eh? We can do it together if you want. I’ll be your wingman, like you are to me with our clubbing nights.”

  “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

  CHAPTER 6

  BEFORE LONG, WE were sharing half the DJ set each, seamlessly blending our styles together, moulding the music to fit each other, to fit the mood of the club of sweaty, dance-hungry dancers bouncing, jumping, waving, throwing shapes with glow sticks in their hands and blowing green glow-in-the-dark whistles around their necks.

  We sailed into the club, into our club, where we had our hour-long set on the posters and flyers, exactly as Slinky Simon had told us we would. We greeted the bouncers, the coat-check man and the barman who always winked at us. Slinky Simon asked if were we all set, did we need anything? They were expecting a full house that night as it was the Friday at the end of the month—“After pay day, so everyone’s wanting to spunk their money up the wall, to have a bit of an escape from the Monday to Friday, the nine to five, to have a bit of magic, and we’re…you’re here to give them that magic, aren’t you, boys?”

  Although it was quite a tall order, we’d been going there for months, most Friday or Saturday nights, and it felt like coming home in a way. The people in the club, the people who worked there and the dancers who came up to us week after week, requesting the same songs we’d added to our collection, shouting and jumping up and down when we played their requests…it was like a spiritual family meeting. More like a family meeting than it had been in Paul’s conservatory.

  They say friends are the family you choose for yourself, in which case Paul and I had created brothers, sisters, uncles and aunts joined by the love of music, the love of letting the week go, disappearing into our movements on the dance floor, eyes closed, hands in the air, waving in time with the music. In that moment, we were all joined by that particular genius that filled the club when the music, the mood, and the drugs all combined perfectly.

  So how could we be nervous playing again, when we were among family? We couldn’t. We didn’t stay nervous; any worries and thoughts about anything bad disappeared as soon as we stepped into the DJ booth with our records to the cheer of the crowd.

  Halfway through our set, Slinky Simon joined us in the booth, a big smile on his face as he nodded in time with the music and his hands snaked around his head. “This is what it’s all about, boys. Told you, didn’t I?”

  I nodded, an ear taken out of the headphones so I could hear what he’d said.

  “This—” he gestured with his arms to the jumping crowd, waving glow sticks, dancing, flashing lights “—this is a beautiful glimmer of tranquillity in what can feel like a hate-filled world. Where’s the hate here? Nowhere. Enjoy your time in this life.” He kissed my cheek, then Paul’s, and then disappeared into the dancing crowd.

  I didn’t think we’d be able to top that, but it was that night when it happened.

  In our dirty, cluttered kitchen, an overflowing ashtray on the table between us, a mug of tea each, having our own two-man chill-out party as we had so often before, both of us at that perfect moment, post being a bit too high to breathe without feeling sick and before the reality of life, the comedown approached on the horizon. That perfect floaty, feeling connected with the world and everything in it, feeling that all would be well, now and forever…

  That moment.

  We were discussing what we’d do if we could go to Ibiza and take up Slinky Simon’s offer of a tryout spot at one of the clubs out there.

  “We’d need the summer off work.” I continued with the list of requirements.

  Paul counted them on his fingers. “Yeah, go on.”

  “And the flights.”

  “Yeah, and what else?”

  “Somewhere to stay.” I took a drag on the cigarette, closing my eyes and welcoming the slight rush I felt as I inhaled deeply.

  “What else?”

  “Someone who can put on a party, someone who knows how to put on a show for the clubbers. Inflatable statues, foam blowers, whistles and glow sticks, the lot.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean you. You know how to put on a party. You’ve been to enough in your time, haven’t you?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Tell your mum you’ll do the next charity ball thing she’s asked you to do.”

  “Don’t wanna.”

  “Do it. Or…I’ll withhold sexual favours until you do.”

  He grabbed my hands, placing them on his lap. “Like to see you try.”

  “Do it,” I said.

  “All right, but only cos I love you. Cos you make me be a better person just by being with me. Is that cheesy? Is that too much? I don’t care, you really do.”

  “So that’s a yes, then?”

  “That’s a yes,” he replied, nodding, staring into my eyes.

  “Paul.”

  “Tom.” He was still staring at me.

  “I love you.”

  And then he knelt in front of me, put his hands on my knees and kissed me. “So, so much.”

  ***

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said to Paul the day after we’d both dropped the L-word.

  “Right?”

  “Maybe we should get a place. Together?” I was a bit uncertain as I couldn’t quite believe we were still together, but given we were in his bedroom, having just spent an afternoon doing not much but each other, we did seem to be still together.

  He sat up and his eyes widened. “Isn’t this OK?”

  “It’s OK, yeah, but don’t you think being in our early twenties and still living at home is cramping our style a bit?”

  “Maybe.” He sighed. “Or we could just leave t
hings how they are. If it ain’t broke and all that. Play it by ear.”

  “Maybe.” It certainly wasn’t broken, but I was getting a bit sick and tired of having to plan our sex lives around our parents being out of the house.

  “Way I see it, we should give it a few months and then see.” He kissed me, and I felt him stiffen as he pushed against me.

  “Paul!” Marilyn shouted, then, without knocking, burst into his bedroom, face aghast in horror at us obviously about to have sex. Staring at the floor, she said, “I assumed you were alone. I want to talk to you about something.”

  “Give us a minute, will you, Mother?”

  She stood, tapping her foot on the floor.

  “I’ll be out. Door please.” He stared at her.

  With a huff and an aggressive closing of the door, she was gone.

  I kissed him, but he didn’t respond. “Killed it, hasn’t she?”

  He shrugged. “Let’s have a look what we can afford. Just a look. Maybe we could get some help from my olds if I tell them I’m going to find myself, work out what I’m going to do with my life.”

  “Yeah, let’s have a look,” I replied with a smirk as I pulled on clothes.

  ***

  We found a large, four-storey crumbling Victorian redbrick mansion in an unfashionable street in an unfashionable corner of South East London, beyond Lewisham, thrusting its way towards the M25 orbital motorway, and beyond the Catford gyratory system which was, basically, a big roundabout. And when I say we found a mansion, what we could afford was one double room in which we put our entire lives: bed, wardrobe, desk, records, clothes, TV. No VCR. We bought a top-notch hi-fi system to go with Paul’s record deck and our growing record collection instead.

  Mum helped us move in. Paul’s parents said they would have helped, but they couldn’t spare the time away from the essentials, and did he want any more money to help him settle in?

  Mum held a box in front of her stomach and the door with her hip, a cigarette in her mouth. “It’s gonna be snug with you two in here, but fair enough, it is time you flew the nest. Is there a lounge, or is the landlord squeezing another room’s rent out of it?”