Shameless

by Paul Burston

  As well-intentioned as these gifts clearly were, Martin couldn’t help but feel a little insulted by the implication that he was an emotional cripple in need of professional guidance. It wasn’t as if he were still a teenager and had just come out. He had been an out and proud gay man all of his adult life, and had been on countless Gay Pride marches to prove it, not to mention the odd activist demonstration back in the days when such things were all the rage. More than once, he had considered writing to his father and explaining that, much as he appreciated the thought behind his little gifts, he really didn’t need them. The fact that he hadn’t yet got around to putting pen to paper merely showed that he didn’t want to hurt his father’s feelings, and was by no means an example of the crippling arrested development and complete lack of personal motivation described in some of the books.

  Feeling rather like a child on Christmas morning, opening a present he already knows is going to be a chess set and not the computer game he had been dropping hints about for the past three months, Martin tore open the package on the kitchen table and was somewhat taken aback to find a copy of The Joy of Gay Sex, together with a month’s supply of multi-vitamins, a leaflet on safer sex and a packet of condoms. With them was a short note written in his father’s familiar scrawl. “See chapter on safe sex,” it read. “Very interesting.”

  Caroline was working late at the office. Or rather, she was sitting at her desk, working through some personal problems that had been festering at the back of her mind all day. On the rare occasions that she wrote to her mother, her letters were always written on her computer and laid out in bullet points. It may seem odd to compose a letter to a member of one’s family in the same style used for addressing business clients, but relations between Caroline and her mother had never been intimate, and for some reason she had always found it the best way of articulating her thoughts. This was precisely what she was doing now, only this particular letter was addressed to nobody but herself.

  At first she had considered writing a letter to Graham, but quickly abandoned this idea when it struck her that letters to exes were rarely a good idea, especially when laid out in bullet points, and least of all when said ex had already moved on to a new partner and would in all probability be sharing the contents of the letter with her, whoever the hell she was. So instead, Caroline had decided to lay her thoughts out on the computer screen, in the hope that this way she might be able to make a little more sense of them. So far, she thought it was going rather well.

  Reasons Why Breaking Up with Graham Was a Bad Move

  • Graham was the best thing that ever happened to you.

  • Graham is kind and gentle.

  • Graham is very good-looking.

  • Graham is very good in bed.

  • Graham doesn’t mind you doing a bit of coke now and then.

  • Graham is easygoing most of the time, except when you listen to his answering-machine messages, pick fights with him or accuse him of being gay in front of his friends.

  • Graham isn’t gay.

  Indications That Life Isn’t the Same Since Breaking Up with Graham

  • Only having two orgasms in three months

  • Taking too many drugs

  • Becoming a prostitute

  Reasons for Getting Back Together with Graham

  • All of the above

  • Sophie’s wedding (not terribly important but would be nice)

  Caroline scanned her eyes up and down the computer screen and smiled. This was easier than she had thought. Still, deciding that she should try and patch things up with Graham wasn’t really the difficult part. In fact, the more she looked at what she had written so far, the clearer it became that getting back with Graham had obviously been what she had wanted all along. It was just reassuring to see it written there in black and white. But now for the hard part. It was all very well her deciding that she wanted Graham back, but how was she going to convince him?

  Reasons Why Graham Should Want You Back

  • You love him.

  • You’re good in bed.

  • You’re not fat anymore.

  Shit, this wasn’t going very well at all. If she was going to convince Graham that dumping his new girlfriend and getting back together with her was a good idea, she’d have to do a lot better than this. Maybe a little line of coke would help focus her mind. After all, she had done some of her best work under the influence of cocaine—written some of her most effective pitches, closed some of her biggest deals.

  Caroline reached into her handbag for her Tiffany pouch and began chopping a line of coke on her mouse pad. Hunched over her desk, with her mind firmly focused on the job at hand, she didn’t notice her boss as he stepped out of his office and, spotting her still at her workstation long after everybody else had gone home, walked toward her with a quizzical look on his face.

  “Ah, Caroline,” he said as he approached her desk. “Glad to see that you’re . . .”

  Whatever her boss had been about to say next, something in his expression told her that “chopping a line of cocaine” wasn’t it.

  Fourteen

  The atmosphere outside Red Cube was turning ugly. The seething crowd of tabloid photographers, teenage wanna-bes and clueless tourists pushed and shoved as Fernando, John and Martin brandished their invitations and breezed past the tightly packed security. John was sporting two days’ worth of designer stubble on his chin, a diamond stud in his ear and a brightly colored scarf on his head. But if he had been hoping that someone might mistake him for David Beckham, he was sorely disappointed. Not a single flash went off as they made their way past the banks of photographers lining the entrance to the building. As they approached the door, John looked back briefly over his shoulder and distinctly heard someone shout “Wanker!” which was recognition of a sort.

  Inside the club the atmosphere was no less frenetic. On the ground floor, swarms of PR girls in tops no bigger than John’s head scarf buzzed around with clipboards, ticking names off various guest lists and ushering the select few in the direction of the velvet-roped area at the far end of the otherwise empty dance floor. Upstairs where the majority of people seemed to be congregating, handsome cocktail waiters with broad smiles and narrow waists darted about with trays laden with glasses of red and white wine, vodka martinis and bottled beers. As for the other guests, for the most part they were the kind of people who gave music industry parties a bad name. Balding record company executives in flashy suits flirted with simpering girls in microskirts and makeup an inch thick.

  Middle-aged rock critics with scruffy T-shirts and spiky hairdos lectured their infinitely better-looking female companions on the meaning of postfeminism in the field of pop music. Tabloid gossip columnists with sweaty faces scoured the room in search of bona fide celebrities with a story to tell or, failing that, desperate wannabes who might entertain the idea of having sex with them in exchange for a line of coke and a mention in tomorrow’s paper. Meanwhile, huddled next to the entrance, a crowd of young female competition winners all the way from Switzerland waited expectantly for a glimpse of Posh and Becks, oblivious to the adult games going on around them.

  Much as John had predicted, it wasn’t too long before Fernando was approached by one of his many record company contacts. A fat man with a few wisps of hair on top and a curly little ponytail that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the rear end of a pig sidled up and whispered something in his ear, before leading him away from the main bar and through a door guarded by a bouncer with a walkie-talkie.

  “Now do you see what I mean?” John said, helping himself to another vodka martini from a passing waiter. “I told you Fernando was well connected.”

  But Martin wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were focused on a pretty boy standing a few feet away, dressed in vintage ’70s Wrangler jeans, a figure-hugging white T-shirt with studded sleeves and a pale brown cowboy hat over dark feathercut hair. His green eyes were rimmed with mascara and there was a dusting of silve
r glitter on his high cheekbones. Under normal circumstances, Martin would have immediately assumed that any man wearing makeup must be straight, since most of the gay men he knew would sooner die than risk being seen as effeminate. Personally he hadn’t applied makeup to his face since the age of fifteen, when he used to sneak out of the house on a Friday night with his mother’s eyeliner smudged around his eyes in honor of Robert Smith, lead singer with The Cure. Come to think of it, practically every male pop icon he could think of who ever wore makeup had turned out to be straight, from David Bowie to David Sylvian. The obvious exception, of course, was Boy George. But then how many gay men wanted to look like him? If George had ever been a role model for anyone, it was for fat girls from the suburbs.

  Despite all of this, something about this boy’s appearance told Martin that he might just be in with a chance. For one thing, he had a red bandanna threaded through the belt loops on his jeans, which no straight man would even dream of wearing unless his belt had been stolen and his trousers were falling down. For another, he was surrounded by a gaggle of girls, any one of whom might conceivably have been his girlfriend—were it not for the body language, which hinted at the kind of lighthearted intimacy enjoyed by a group of girls together on a night out, rather than anything even remotely sexual. Besides which, the boy was making it abundantly clear that he was not only aware of Martin’s interest, but actually enjoying it. Every so often he would find an excuse to turn and stare in Martin’s direction, with a look halfway between a smile and a challenge. “Go on,” it said. “Walk over here in front of all these people and talk to me. I fucking dare you!”

  “What are you staring at?” John asked, following Martin’s gaze. “Oh, I see. Yeah, he’s quite cute, I suppose. But I’m really not sure about the makeup. And that cowboy drag is such old hat! Even straights are doing it now. I blame Madonna.”

  “Well, not everyone can carry off a silk head scarf,” Martin replied sarcastically. “Apart from you and David Beckham, obviously.” Then, staring dreamily across the room: “Besides, I think the makeup suits him. It makes him look, I don’t know . . . interesting.”

  John sniffed. “If he looks so interesting, why don’t you just go over there and talk to him? Somehow, I doubt he’ll be half as interesting when he opens his mouth. If you ask me, he looks pretty vague. Not that vague boys don’t have their attractions, but there are limits. I’ll bet if you shone a flashlight in his ear, his eyes would light up.”

  There was a pause while John waited in vain for some response to what he thought was a pretty sharp remark, and Martin continued to stare at the boy, who was evidently aware that he was the main topic of conversation and, judging by his self-conscious posturing and ever more frequent glances, seemed more determined than ever to prolong Martin’s agony.

  “Right,” John said finally. “I’m bored. I’m going downstairs to see if I can spot anyone famous worth bumping into. Are you coming, or would you rather stay here and play cowboys and Indians?”

  Martin cast one last, lingering look across the room before grabbing a drink and following John in the direction of the stairs, pausing once to glance back and check that the cowboy was still there and feeling slightly wounded to discover that he had already disappeared. He squeezed through the gang of giggling competition winners and caught up with John as he was about to head downstairs. Just then, two security guards came charging up the stairs toward them, waving their arms in the air and demanding that everyone immediately move back into the bar and keep the staircase completely clear.

  “Quick!” said John, grabbing Martin’s arm and elbowing his way into the middle of the competition winners. Moments later the screaming started as Posh entered the room, minus David Beckham but with some grinning children’s television host trailing not far behind. She waved halfheartedly as she was ushered through a door and quickly disappeared from view. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds.

  “What a cheek!” John said sourly as the door closed behind them. “It wouldn’t hurt her to spend a few minutes with the people who put her where she is today!”

  “But you’ve never even bought a Spice Girls record,” Martin protested. “You only came to see David Beckham.”

  “That’s hardly the point,” John said as a waiter carrying an enormous steaming tray of Chinese food swept past and disappeared through the door. “I bet that’s not for Posh,” he went on. “She must have David tucked away back there. Or maybe she’s entertaining Mel C. Honestly, it’s no wonder people say Mel C looks like a big bull dyke. Still, at least nobody could accuse her of being too thin, or of having a coke habit.”

  As John spoke, Martin suddenly became aware of a rather short, rather stocky girl with closely cropped hair standing directly in front of him. She turned to reveal an angry face covered with piercings and a T-shirt which read I LOVE MEL C.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” John said crossly, pushing his way through the crowd. “This is supposed to be a bloody party! When are lesbians going to realize that it’s okay to have a sense of humor?”

  Caroline was obliged to take a taxi home when her boss insisted that she leave her company car in the all-night car park, rather than risk being stopped by the police and bringing the firm into disrepute by being exposed as a drug user. The fact that he had caught her at the preparation stage, well before any drugs actually entered her system, seemed to have passed him by completely. But considering that she had just narrowly escaped being given the sack, a taxi didn’t seem like too great a sacrifice to make. She still couldn’t quite believe that she had allowed herself to be caught in such a compromising position, or that her boss had been quite so understanding. She had been far too freaked out to take in every single word he said, but what it seemed to boil down to was that he didn’t particularly care what she did on her own time, just so long as she didn’t do it on his. Since their conversation had taken place well after 8:00 P.M., she had been sorely tempted to reply that, technically, it was her time, but thankfully her common sense had got the better of her and she had managed to bite her tongue. This left her feeling quite proud of herself. Her behavior tonight may have resulted in her very nearly losing her job, but when it came to the crunch, at least she knew when to shut up. She also knew that she had been extremely lucky. If her boss had any idea of the number of times she had taken coke at her desk, he might not have been quite so lenient. When you took all these factors into consideration, it was hardly any wonder that Caroline left the office on a high. It was the kind of high often described by people who emerged unscathed from motorway pileups.

  She arrived home shortly after nine and immediately fixed herself a large vodka and cranberry juice. She then spent a few minutes investigating the contents of the fridge and debating whether to cook herself some dinner or simply chop a quick line. Since the only remotely edible thing she could find in the fridge was a chicken breast that was already past its sell-by date, it didn’t take her long to decide on the latter of the two options. “I’ve earned this,” she told herself as she floated into the living room and saw the light flashing on her answering machine. The automated voice told her that she had three new messages, which sounded rather promising.

  The first message brought her down with a bump. It was from her mother, which Caroline immediately took as a sign that she had been right to go with the coke and not the chicken breast. After all, who could rely on a chicken breast to deliver the kind of numbing pain control required when dealing with one’s mother? Sure enough, the message personified her mother at her most manipulative.

  “Hello, dear,” it began. “It’s your mother. I haven’t heard from you in a while, so I thought I’d give you a quick ring to let you know that I’m still alive. Also, I wanted you to be the first to know that your brother and his wife are expecting a baby girl in the new year. I don’t know what names they’re considering, but since when did anyone bother to ask my opinion about these things? Perhaps when you have children of your own, you’ll unders
tand. Anyway, I can’t talk for long. I’m meeting your uncle Bill for lunch. He hasn’t been himself since Auntie Pauline died. He’s talking about buying himself a tombstone. He saw some program on television about that dreadful flu that’s been going around, and now he’s convinced that he’s about to drop dead. I told him he’d outlive us all, but you know what he’s like when he gets these ideas into his head. Anyway, perhaps you could give me a ring back when you get this message. If you can spare the time, that is. Bye for now.”

  The second message was a little more uplifting. It was from Martin, inviting her over to his place for dinner on Thursday. That would be nice, Caroline thought, pressing the pause button on the answering machine as she flicked through her diary to check that she was free and happily penciled in his name. It felt as if she hardly ever saw Martin these days. He was always at the gym, or busy doing something with his new roommate, or out clubbing somewhere with John. She didn’t begrudge the fact that he spent so much of his spare time these days with his gay male friends. He was still on the rebound from Christopher after all, and searching for a new boyfriend was probably a lot easier with other gay men for company. At the same time, it saddened her that she and Martin seemed to have drifted apart lately. There was a time, not all that long ago, when they spoke on the phone almost every day and made a point of seeing each other at least once a week, whether it was a quiet trip to the cinema or a big night out clubbing. That was why she had gone to the club on Saturday, to relive some of those wild nights. If she had only known beforehand that it would turn out to be a far wilder night than she was anticipating, with no sign of the person she had expressly gone to be wild with, she might have thought again. Still, Thursday would be a good opportunity to catch up, although quite how much she was prepared to tell Martin about what had been going on lately she had yet to decide.