Shameless

by Paul Burston

  Passing a sandwich bar, she quickly checked her watch before popping in and ordering a large cappuccino to take away. The silver-haired Italian man behind the counter winked as he handed over her change and she found herself blushing, imagining for one paranoid moment that he could somehow read her thoughts and knew exactly what she had been doing with her free time lately and why she was rushing into work so early this morning. Gripping the Styrofoam cup in one hand and her briefcase in the other, she ran out of the sandwich bar and promptly collided with a man walking at a fair pace in the opposite direction, with his head buried in a magazine. As their bodies crashed together, the man’s magazine fell to the floor, quickly followed by Caroline’s Styrofoam cup, which bounced once before breaking open and soaking both the magazine and the man’s shoes with hot foaming coffee.

  “Oh fuck!” she yelled, immediately dropping to the floor and picking up the magazine, which she noticed featured a rather lovely cover shot of a scantily clad Kylie Minogue, complete with a sticky brown stain spreading slowly across the lower half of her face and the best part of her cleavage. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  “Caroline?” a familiar voice said.

  She looked up. “Graham!”

  He smiled and helped her to her feet. “I thought it looked like you. Then you started with all the fuck stuff and I knew it had to be.”

  She blushed slightly, smoothed down her skirt, and handed him the damp magazine. “Sorry about Kylie,” she said.

  “That’s okay. I’ve got a dozen magazines with Kylie on the cover.” He grinned. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I mean, I know how your mind works. I wouldn’t want you getting the wrong idea.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “A grown man admitting to liking Kylie? I’d say that was pretty incriminating evidence.”

  Caroline laughed nervously. “Oh, that! Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking!”

  He looked solemn for a moment. “No, me neither. So anyway, how are things?”

  “Oh, fine,” she lied. “Working hard. Playing harder. You know how it is.”

  “Not really,” he said. “I don’t seem to find much time for fun these days.”

  I’ll bet you don’t, Caroline thought bitterly, instantly picturing him with the woman from the other night. Then her subconscious flashed up images of the kind of fun she’d been having lately, and she decided she was hardly in any position to judge. There was a long pause while she tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound bitter, or desperate, or too keen, or not keen enough. “So . . . ,” she said finally.

  He smiled. “I’d ask if you had time for a coffee, but you seem to be in quite a rush.”

  “Yes,” she said, suddenly feeling terribly awkward and grateful for the excuse to make a quick getaway. “Breakfast meeting. Must dash.”

  If he was disappointed, he didn’t let it show. “Maybe another time, then,” he said, still smiling impenetrably.

  “Sure.” She smiled back. “Another time. Why not? Great. Bye, then.”

  As she watched him walk away, she had the awful sinking feeling that fate had just offered her a helping hand and that she had foolishly gone and bitten it.

  Martin was sitting on a busy District Line train with his back to the window, flicking through a copy of last night’s Evening Standard and wondering how long he should wait before calling Ben and casually suggesting that they meet up for a drink. The sex this morning had been passionate enough to make the possibility of a repeat performance seem highly likely, and while Ben hadn’t exactly jumped at the chance to offer Martin his telephone number, he seemed happy enough to scribble it down when asked. Playing it cool had never been Martin’s strong point anyway, and since it was an unwritten rule of all relationships that one person was usually required to do the chasing, he couldn’t see any reason why it shouldn’t be him. At the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened had he not asked for Ben’s number. Would Ben have volunteered it, or asked for his? Or would he have allowed Martin to leave without even a mention of the possibility of seeing him again? This didn’t seem very likely. After all, they had got along pretty well. As enjoyable as the sex was (and it had been tender, he thought happily, it had definitely been tender), it was the whole business of getting dressed and eating breakfast together that had cemented the sense of real intimacy. Sitting in Ben’s kitchen, avoiding looking at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, and listening to him talk about his job as a sales assistant at Versace and a part-time model, Martin was convinced that he had felt something significant pass between them. Sure, it was mostly small talk. But at the end of the day, wasn’t that what most relationships were based on, at least some of the time?

  He had turned down the offer of a bath, partly because the bath looked like a breeding ground for communicable diseases, but mainly because he wanted to savor last night’s encounter for as long as possible. He could still smell Ben on his skin, still taste him in his mouth, still feel the warmth and the weight of his body. It was years since he had traveled home in last night’s clothes after spending the night in somebody else’s bed, and he had forgotten just how good it felt. He knew he wasn’t looking his best today, but that didn’t bother him in the slightest. He felt more desirable than he had felt in a long time. It was as if his night with Ben had brought out everything in him that was attractive, so that now it was written on his face for everyone to see. And it wasn’t going unnoticed. The young city type in the pinstripe suit sitting directly opposite had been staring at him for the past ten minutes. And when the train pulled in at Earl’s Court, his attention was drawn to a cute blond boy in jeans and a black bomber jacket who stood waiting on the platform and made a point of boarding the same car and squeezing through the crowds until he was standing barely two feet away, peering over his newspaper in that casual yet significant manner that Martin had never quite perfected but which often seemed to make the gay world go around.

  When he finally arrived home, half an hour later and with half a dozen imaginary phone numbers in his pocket, the front door was double locked, indicating that Neil had already left. He thought this was rather odd. Neil rarely left for work much before ten, and it was still only 8:15 A.M. He let himself in quietly and gently tapped on Neil’s door. There was no answer, and when he opened the door, he could tell immediately that the bed hadn’t been slept in. Perhaps Neil had got lucky last night, too, Martin thought. It seemed a bit churlish not to be pleased for him, but he couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of disappointment. He was dying to give somebody the full blow-by-blow account of where he’d been and whom he’d been with, to share the tiniest details before they faded into the dim recesses of his memory, just as the glitter on Ben’s pillowcases would inevitably fade with time, whether he washed them regularly or not. Sharing it all with Neil would make it seem more real somehow, even if he did leave out the bit about the glitter and the eye makeup. Something told him that these weren’t the sorts of details Neil would find particularly inspiring—although if John ran true to form, it probably wouldn’t be very long before he heard about them anyway.

  Closing the bedroom door behind him, he made his way into the kitchen and checked to see whether Neil had remembered to buy fresh milk. The fridge door was decorated with the kinds of campy magnets that were sold at popular gay shops such as American Retro in Old Compton Street. The magnets began appearing after Neil moved in, and in a few short months had multiplied to such an extent that these days the fridge door offered a comprehensive visual history of gay culture, from Michelangelo’s David complete with an entire gay wardrobe to more recent gay icons such as Judy Garland and Pee-wee Herman. Attached to the door with David’s leather shorts was a note in Neil’s handwriting. “Gone to collect Brian’s mum from Euston,” it read. “Sorry about crack in toilet. Have called plumber, who will come and fix it this evening. Told to turn water off. I’ll pay for repair of course. See you tonight.”

  Martin ran i
nto the bathroom. Sure enough, there was a large crack in the toilet through which the water had obviously leaked at some point, creating a large puddle before Neil managed to locate the stopcock and turn off the water supply. Suddenly Martin wished he had taken up Ben’s offer of a bath. Cursing the day he allowed Neil to move in, he stormed into his bedroom and packed a bag for the gym. If he was quick, he might just manage to squeeze in a shower before work.

  Caroline’s relief at finding her computer switched off and no trace of her document anywhere on the system was short-lived. Initially she was simply grateful for the fact that she had managed to get to the office before anyone else arrived. Greeting the security guard with a cheery “Good morning,” she had flown through the reception and up the stairs before finally landing at her desk. Laying her briefcase on top of the pile of papers littering the surface, she restarted her computer and looked around quickly to ensure that her boss wasn’t about to spring out of his office or that Paula, Sophie and Tamsin weren’t lurking by the watercooler. As the computer hummed into life, she was fully expecting to see the evidence of last night’s ill-advised outpourings suddenly materialize before her eyes. When the screen came up blank, she was puzzled. Then, realizing that her computer hadn’t simply gone into sleep mode but had actually been shut down, she ran a search for her document and was surprised when nothing remotely resembling it was found. Oh well, she thought, at least if it had disappeared into cyberspace, there was no chance of it getting into the wrong hands.

  Then she had a truly terrible thought. Apart from her boss, she was the last person to leave the office last night. The cleaners had been and gone, and neither they nor the security guard were authorized to touch the computers. So if she hadn’t closed the document, and she was pretty certain that she hadn’t, the only other explanation was that her boss had closed it for her before shutting down her computer. And since he was her boss, and he had caught her chopping coke at her desk, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he would have felt compelled to read what she had written. And if he had read it, it seemed highly probable that he would be feeling far less lenient about her little indiscretion. In fact, he had probably arrived at the conclusion that he was harboring a drug-addicted prostitute and was preparing to give her the sack the moment he walked through the door.

  This was all Dylan’s fault, she thought. It was he who had insisted on paying her for sex. It was he who had suggested they meet at the Sanderson, and he who had waved her off in a taxi destined to stop at a traffic light just as Graham and his new girlfriend were passing by. It was he who had wound her up into such a state that she had gone to the Fridge and been molested by some pervert passing himself off as gay. It was he who had left her feeling so guilty and confused over Graham that she had sat down at her desk last night and written that bloody stupid letter to herself. It was he who had left that answering-machine message for her last night, adding to the stress she was already suffering and ensuring that she didn’t get a good night’s sleep. It was he who had created the situation she now found herself in, waiting in anguish for her boss to arrive and give her the sack. It was all his fault.

  Well, he wasn’t going to get away with it. If nothing else, she wanted him to know exactly what he had done. She wanted him to take responsibility for all the damage he had caused. She wanted him to feel the full weight of her anger. Opening her briefcase, she pulled out her address book and searched for Dylan’s telephone number.

  If she rang now, she could catch him before he left for work. She dialed the number and sat quietly fuming with the phone tucked under her ear as she waited for him to pick up. It was then that she spotted the memo sticking out from under her briefcase, with her boss’s signature written at the bottom. She pulled it out and began to read. “Dear Caroline,” it began. “I hope I made myself clear last night, and that the little matter we discussed is now closed. Also, I should advise you that shortly after you left the office, the computer system crashed due to a sudden power cut. I noticed that you were busy working on something, but I’m afraid it looks as though it may have been lost. If you would like some help trying to retrieve it, please let me know and I will ask one of the technical staff to come and assist you.”

  Caroline couldn’t believe her luck. The document had disappeared! She was saved! She wasn’t about to be given the sack after all! Her moment of elation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of Dylan’s voice. “Hello?” he said. “Hello? Who is this? Look, I’m standing here in a wet towel, so this had better be good.”

  Caroline’s first instinct was to hang up. Then, feeling a tiny pang of guilt for the way she had been cursing his name only moments ago, she relented. “Hi, Dylan,” she said. “It’s Caroline. I’m sorry to call so early.”

  “That’s okay,” he replied. “So, you got my message?”

  “Yes. I mean no. Well, sort of. You got cut off.”

  There was a pause. “I see,” he said finally. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this, Caz, so I suppose I should just come out with it. The thing is, the reason I called was to tell you that I’ve just discovered I’ve got crabs.”

  3

  Crash

  Sixteen

  Wednesday was the day Neil went to see his therapist. Neil was one of those gay therapy junkies who spent far more time talking about his recovery program than he spent actually pursuing it, and in the short time that they had lived together, Martin had learned everything about Neil’s therapist that there was to know. Neil had been going to the same therapist ever since he and Brian had split up, and in almost three years he had never missed a single session. His therapist, Derek, was a gay man in his early forties with red hair and a friendly face covered in freckles. He was based in Euston, in a first-floor rent-controlled apartment with orange-painted walls and a view of the local recreation center that Neil sometimes found distracting. Dotted around the flat were a selection of religious icons and other artifacts that Derek had amassed during his many visits to Morocco. In place of a couch, his clients were invited to unwind in a wicker rocking chair while he sat nodding in a similar chair directly opposite. The few remaining items of furniture reflected the Moroccan theme. The first time Neil entered the flat, he was overwhelmed by the range of herbal teas on offer, and asphyxiated by the smell of incense.

  Derek was a recovering alcoholic and drug user who had been clean and sober for fifteen years, and who specialized in helping gay men with similar problems to overcome their addictions and avoid what he described as “chaos living.” It was his belief that much of the excessive behavior witnessed on the gay scene could be attributed to the impact of AIDS and the pressures of living through an age of immense grief and deep sexual anxiety. In a previous life, he had been employed by one of the main AIDS organizations as an HIV counselor, helping people to come to terms with their diagnosis. These days, he preferred to work for himself. The majority of his clients were drawn from the club scene, where HIV was rarely discussed and where the heavy use of drugs and alcohol often went unchecked. His client list included a DJ who had become addicted to Ketamine and broke down whenever somebody left the dance floor during his set, and several club promoters who had developed serious cocaine habits thanks to all the freebies their security staff confiscated at the door before passing on to their employers. It was no coincidence that Derek tended to screen his calls on Tuesdays, the day when most of his clients would be experiencing their comedown from the weekend.

  Neil had first heard about Derek from the transsexual who sold him his car, who woke up one Tuesday morning convinced that life wasn’t worth living, and would have taken an overdose there and then had she not traded her prescription-strength painkillers for a couple of E’s the night before. During his first couple of sessions, Neil was only prepared to discuss his breakup with Brian, but it wasn’t too long before he began opening up to Derek about the other sources of pain in his life. Chief among these was his relationship with his father, who had been fairly violent when Nei
l was a child, and who reacted to the news that his only son was a bum bandit by removing everything belonging to him from the house and building an enormous bonfire at the bottom of the garden. Neil had already left home by the time this happened, and had often wondered whether his absence was all that prevented him from being burned along with his old schoolbooks and the bed in which he had masturbated regularly as a teenager. His attempts to come to terms with his father’s actions weren’t much helped by his mother, whose main concern seemed to be that her husband shouldn’t have been building bonfires on a day when the neighbors had hung their washing out to dry. An unhappy marriage had long since driven her into the arms of the Catholic Church, where she had found the comfort she needed, but learned very little in the way of tolerance or understanding. When Neil, laughing nervously, first told his mother that he was gay, she sniffed and scolded him: “There’s nothing funny about a prolapsed rectum!”