by Liam Livings
It’s like most extremes; rather than being on a long line with one at either end, they’re actually a circle, with the two extremes being right next to one another. Looking like an idiot fashion-wise and being very painfully trendy are definitely a good example of this. So is very left wing and very right wing. And camp and butch. Some men’s interpretation of super-butch—harnesses, leather, handlebar moustaches and chaps, as in the leather leg-wear, not men—was a gnat’s breath away from being very camp.
After discarding piles and piles of clothes, running up and down the stairs showing Mum each outfit option, I had eventually—after she’d shouted at me to make my fucking mind up, she was getting old there and would be drawing her pension soon if I didn’t hurry the fuck up—I settled on light-brown chinos, white polo shirt with Union Flag on the front—I, too, had succumbed to the Ginger Spice at the Brit Awards effect, in an ironic way, of course—and a blue hoodie to cover up the Union Flag if I thought it was too dressy.
Now, at the table in the café, I kept the hoodie zipped, feeling, despite my original intention, I’d most definitely overdressed for the non-date.
He arrived at my table, and he shook my hand. I knew Mum was right when I felt his hand in mine and my stomach did a somersault.
“How’s things? What you been doing?” he started with once our drinks arrived.
I told him about the supermarket and being back at my parents’ place, just generally taking things slower this time. “What about you? How’s things on the outside?” I laughed to myself, then regretted it as taking the piss out of him. “Sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you. No, it’s just… Anyway, how’s things?”
“Big change.”
“Like what? The music and fashion? You weren’t away that long.” I laughed quietly, then mentally slapped myself.
“Three months.”
“Long time.” I stared at my pot of tea. “You going to pour yours, or wait a bit longer? I never know how long to wait. I heard there’s an optimum time, but I can never remember if it’s three or five minutes.”
“Could be four.”
“Yeah. Could be.” I checked how much the tea had brewed. “I’m going in. I’m pouring it.” After pouring mine, I commented that I assumed caffeine was still OK, and not off-limits.
“And cigarettes.” He poured his tea. “I think The Friary would burst into flames if they banned cigarettes. They’re everything in that place. Currency, friendship, escape. Something else.”
Silence descended on the table as we both sipped our tea. Fuck me, this is hard work. Never used to be like this with Paul. Maybe all the fun, all the ease, all the everything was just the drugs. I pursed my lips, checked the time. Less than ten minutes we’d been here, and already it felt like an afternoon.
I blurted out something that had been on my mind for some time: “I’ve not been with anyone since you. I tried, but it didn’t feel right. Whatever you’ve done since we split up doesn’t matter. I’m just telling you about me. I felt too broken. Sorry, that must sound really selfish, you’ve just come out of rehab. We were both broken, I think.”
Truth was, it had been a terrible, awful, unrepeatable experience where I’d decided to get out there, to grab myself a piece of the action, and no matter who I looked at, all I could do was compare each man to Paul. Not as cute smile, not as nice eyes, not as strong arms to hold me with. And when I’d actually spoken to one or two, all they wanted was sex, straight away, no getting to know me, no small talk, laughs, clicking, chemistry—nothing. It was always straight to the what do you like to do in bed conversation. Even though Paul and I had had some sex problems, all caused by, as ever, the drugs, we always had the spark, the chat, the chemistry. If it was just sex, using someone else’s body as a scratching post to release something, I realised I was happier to do that on my own. Of course, I didn’t tell Paul any of that.
“I’ve got the plant they told me to buy. It’s on my bedroom windowsill. Still green, still alive. Mind you, it’s only been three weeks since I left.” He shrugged.
Paul explained how it was living with his parents again. “Mother’s treating me like a cross between the prodigal son who’s returned from a round-the-world trip and a delicate china vase. They’re always asking me how I feel about everything. It’s all very consultative when we decide anything, even down to what we eat. It’s like a board meeting when we talk about dinner. Sometimes I just wish they’d get the fuck on with it and let me be. But no, it’s knocking on my door, checking if everything’s all right, do I need anything, would I like to do something with them as a family. I mean, I’ve not done anything with them as a family since they shipped me off to boarding school. Their visit to Ibiza was so alien, I think that’s partly why I fucked off. I couldn’t remember when I’d been with them to just be, without having some agenda, some issue, some problem I’d caused to discuss. Weird, eh?”
“Bless Barbara.”
“Fuck Barbara. I want my parents back. I want their arm’s-length parenting back. I can’t cope with this closeness. Just when I think I’ve got used to the idea of one sort of closeness—a relationship—now I’m having to get used to my parents’ closeness. Too much. The other day, I heard Mother asking the maid about her children, and did they want to come round to use the pool. Poor woman nearly fainted. After being treated like an appliance for so many years, she didn’t know what the hell to do.”
“Warmth from parents is good. I wouldn’t change mine if I could. Your mother could do with a few lessons from my mum.”
“The hugs. Don’t get me started on the hugs. It’s hugs in the morning over breakfast, hugs at lunchtime when we sit and eat together. Father’s scaled back his work commitments, so he’s staying at home more than he’s away for the first time ever. Hugs at dinner time. It’s like all the hugs I didn’t get when I was a child.”
“Sweet. They’re realising what they would have missed if they’d lost you. They won’t get this time again with you, and neither will you. They’ll be old soon. They must have been our age when they had us, younger even. And look at how we behave, like we’re still teenagers.” I laughed, brazenly pouring myself another tea from the pot.
“How’s being back at your parents’?”
I explained it wasn’t much different. Mum was still very laissez-faire, letting me get on with stuff, not much to want to move away from really. “She even offered for you to move in if you wanted. I explained we weren’t together anymore. So there’s no spare room for you.” Whoops. That hadn’t come out as I had wanted. I tried to distract myself by putting another two sugars in my tea. I took a sip. “Fuck me, that’s sweet.” I knew I had to say what I was about to say but had been waiting for the right time in the conversational flow to slip it in. “What you said at the last therapy session—actually, I meant to ask. How were your parents in group therapy? Did she behave like it was her therapy not yours?”
“A little bit.” He indicated how little between his thumb and index finger and smiled.
Inside, I felt myself melt. This was really going to be harder than I’d thought, especially since we were face-to-face. Him with his eyes twinkling. Him with his bastard gorgeous smile spreading across his face and now, him holding my hand on the table.
He recounted a story of one of the sessions when Marilyn brought everything back to herself and responded to the questions on her behalf rather than related to Paul. Barbara, it seemed, had met her match and almost called a halt to the session until one of the other residents stepped in with some relevant experience which eventually steered things back to Paul. “Whatever, it worked out in the end. I’m going to NA meetings too.”
“NA?”
“Narcotics Anonymous, like Alcoholics Anonymous, but for people who’re addicted to drugs.”
“What’s that like?”
“Keeps me upright. Keeps me together. From being tempted.”
“How often do you go?”
“Every day. Mother and Father have been great about
it.”
“Every day?”
“Every. Day.” Paul nodded. “I asked at The Friary how often I should go. They give you a talk before you’re discharged, make sure you’re ready for the reality of the outside world again. They asked how often I was getting off my face. I said almost every day, so they said I should go to NA almost every day, or every day, just to be safe. I go to them all over West London—Acton, Chiswick, Ealing, Hounslow, Isleworth—during the day, in the evening…”
“Seen any celebrities?”
He tapped the side of his nose. “Confidential. It’s like the masons but with shitloads of orange squash, tea, coffee and rich tea biscuits.”
I checked my watch. Has it really been an hour? The teapots were empty. “I’m so proud of you. You’re doing so well. I always knew you could do it. I’ll pay, I’m working. Actually, are you working again, or what?”
“Or what.” He smiled. “Busy going to all the NA meetings.”
“’Course.”
I paid at the counter and was about to leave when Paul’s waving caught my eye. I returned to our table.
“What I said at the last session?” He stared up at me.
“What about it?” I rested one hand on the table, the other casually in my hoodie pocket.
“You started to talk about it then got distracted talking about Mother.”
I was almost out the door. I could leave this till later. Or never. Never would be good to have this conversation. I swallowed a lump in my throat.
“I like the Union Flag. Let’s have a look.” He unzipped my hoodie, revealing the flag in all its red, white and blue overdressed unsuitable glory. “It suits you. Sexy.” He held on to the hem of my hoodie.
My stomach clenched. I had to tell him. I had to kick the puppy down the stairs. I had to put him out of his misery because after what he’d said, I’d just let it hang there.
“What you said at the session. It was lovely. It was sweet. No, not sweet. It was kind, it was moving. I didn’t expect it. And I wanted you to know I forgive you. For everything you did. I know it wasn’t you. I understand why you did it. I was hurt and upset, but I get it now. But this—” I grabbed his hand which was still holding my clothing “—this.” I removed his hand and placed it on the table. “This can’t happen. This won’t happen. I want to be your friend. I can’t imagine being without you in my life, but we’ve moved on now. We’ve both moved on. Now’s the time we work out how to be friends. But that’s all. I’m sorry. I can’t go through losing you again. I can’t do that to my heart.”
He blinked quickly, putting his hands in his lap under the table. “’Course. Very sensible. My houseplant’s still alive, so maybe when I get the goldfish—no, it’s the hamster. Yeah. When I get the hamster, we can.”
“No.” I shook my head.
He looked up at me, and his smile disappeared instantly, replaced with the face of a man who’d just been given some very bad news.
“Good luck with the meetings!” I said weakly, wanting to punch myself in the stomach. I shook his hand then left in silence. All I could think about was the little puppy I’d just kicked down the stairs.
***
The weeks passed. Despite what we’d said at the non-date, I didn’t hear from Paul and neither did I contact him. It felt like we’d split up all over again.
As I finished at work, thinking about the things that had happened—a few short amusing little anecdotes that had punctuated my day—I imagined myself telling Paul about them, and us laughing, and then him telling me about how his day had gone. Even if he’d spent all of it in his bedroom fighting off hugs from his mother, and having a three-quarters-of-an-hour discussion about which meat to have for dinner, I knew it was how I wanted to start my evening.
Yes, I had friends; of course I had friends. I was making some decent ones at work, as I knew I would. Slinky Simon and the others from that part of my life had fallen away. I got the odd call asking if I wanted to DJ at the weekend, but after explaining I wasn’t doing that again, I was resting, the calls soon dried up. I realised many of the friends from that period of my life were really just mates, people to go out with, people to have a laugh with, and the only person from then I wanted to still see was Paul.
Only I couldn’t see him either because I didn’t want to only be friends. Because it felt so wrong, so much like we were holding such a lot of ourselves back from the relationship we were meant to have together.
And then, in the instant when I was about to turn one way to make my way back home, I found myself walking in the other direction.
***
I rang the Big Ben doorbell.
Paul answered the door, smiling weakly. “All right? What you doing here?” He held out his hand for me to shake.
“I’m not, as it goes.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You know how they always say you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone?”
“Bit of a cliché, isn’t it?” He shrugged, putting his hand by his side, kicking the floor.
“Yeah, but it’s a fucking true cliché.”
“What you lost now? Can’t be as bad as me losing my whole self.” He laughed one small breath of laughter, then stared at the gravel on the ground.
I told him about leaving work and the anecdotes, and the way we used to share our days with each other after work. “I want that everyday us back again. With you. Fuck your houseplant and fuck your hamster and seeing if they’re alive in three years’ time.” I took a deep breath. “I don’t want to shake your hand.”
“Don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to shake my hand after what I’ve done.” He stuck his hands in his pockets.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch since our non-date.”
“That’s what I told Mother and Father it was.” He looked up at me, his blue eyes crinkling at the edges.
“I’ve not been in touch…because I don’t know how to be with you if I’m not with you, with you.”
“With me, with me?”
“No more shaking each other’s hands. Boyfriends. Together, together. Do you want me to draw you a diagram? So what I’m saying is, you know that offer in the café, and what you said in The Friary? I don’t suppose that offer’s still available is it?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck friends, I love you. I want to be with you again, like we were before.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He hugged me, holding me tightly as I inhaled his distinctive musky, sweet scent. His strong arms wrapped around me. I felt myself responding inside my trousers as his warmth and hardness pressed against me.
And then he kissed me.
And I kissed him. I opened my mouth to his familiar taste, his soft tongue licking my lips, and as my eyes closed, there was nothing else in the world but his lips, his face, his body. And mine. Entwined. Linked. Together.
Pulling back before I got carried away, I said, “Your parents in?”
Nodding, he said, “Poised like two mother hen sentinels either side of my bedroom door.”
I grabbed his hand, and we ran to a secluded spot between some trees on Turnham Green. It wasn’t romantic, but it was what we needed. As soon as we were sure no one could see us, we couldn’t get at each other’s bodies quick enough. I hadn’t had sex with anyone since my last time with Paul, and I knew Paul was the same. Frantically unzipping flies, we grabbed at our cocks, face-to-face, breathing in each other’s hot breath.
We lasted three minutes. It was the best sex I’d had in such a long time with him. It was hopeful, enjoying life, grabbing life by the balls sex. Afterwards, we held each other, leaning against a tree.
“I love you,” Paul said.
“I’ve always loved you,” I replied.
“I’m sorry for everything I did.”
I pressed my index finger on his lips. “You’ve apologised enough. Clean slate now.” I nodded and he copied me.
We made our way back to my parents’ house, holding han
ds the whole way on the Tube, ignoring some people’s disapproving stares.
Bursting through the door, I shouted, “Mum, Paul’s here.”
Arriving from the kitchen with a cigarette in one hand and a metal spoon in the other, she hugged me, then Paul, and said, “I wondered how long that would take.” She took a step back to look him up and down for a moment. “Just as gorgeous as ever. Them blue eyes… Forgive you anything, I would! And that smile.” She looked at me as I beamed in happiness. “I’ve missed seeing that one too, love.” Turning to Paul, she said, “Wanna move in? Just while you get yourselves back on your feet.”
I looked at Paul, and he nodded at me. Looking back at Mum, I said, “If that’s all right.”
“’Course it’s bloody well all right. You’re both my sons, always have been. Welcome back to the family, Paul love.”
EPILOGUE
IT WAS A year since my first visit to The Friary.
We lay on the soft, sandy beach, the red sun slowly rising over the sea, gradually filling the air with warmth. We were in that perfect time before anyone had woken for the day, when the beach was covered in clubbers winding down after a night of munching disco biscuits, drinking water and dancing their tits off.
I was at the floaty stage of waves flowing through my body but not so strong as to make me feel nauseous.
Paul’s head rested on my chest, his hand slowly stroking my stomach. “What a night, eh? Hope the guy following us wasn’t too pissed off when we nicked twenty minutes from his set.”
“We were only giving the party people what they wanted. That’s all Slinky Simon says you have to do.”
“Is he over at the moment?”
“He said he’ll drop in on us. I told him your answer would be the same as mine if he asked us to take on more DJing nights. Still, God loves a trier, I suppose.”
“And Slinky Simon’s definitely trying.” Paul sniggered.
“Had a good night?” I asked hesitantly. Despite us being back in the scene for a few months, I still worried he may return to the bad old days.