Seren glanced up at him and nodded. “Yes, please, Daffyd.” She was curious to hear his story. Devany turned her face toward him with interest.
He looked at them, wondering where to begin, what to say. “Well,” he began. “Today started out badly and went downhill....”
He had wakened to the sound of the vidphone in his hotel room. He fumbled for it blearily and was greeted by the cheery tones of the hotel clerk whose job it was to make the wake-up call. Unfortunately, the call was an hour early. Daffyd had growled something unintelligible and hung up.
For the next twenty minutes, he tried unsuccessfully to resume his interrupted sleep. He had punched the pillows into new and inviting shapes, he had rearranged the blankets, pulling and kicking at them, he had changed position two dozen times. Nothing worked. Finally, disgusted and still tired, he had gotten out of bed and headed for the shower.
In the middle of a nice hot downpour, the hot water had suddenly run out, which was unheard of for this hotel. He was instantly subjected to one of the iciest cold showers he had ever had. In his haste to shut off the spray, he had slipped and fallen heavily, knocking the wind out of himself for a few freezing, frightening minutes. Finally, he was able to crawl out of the tub and turn off the cold stream.
Shivering and wet, he had wrapped himself in the hotel towels, which were never adequate for a man of his girth. He went in search of his warm bathrobe, the soft wool one lined with thick terrycloth. And of course, that one hadn't been packed, only the silk one that he was not about to put on his wet body. He had mentally cursed his valet. Eamon knew he was going to Montreal in January, so why had he packed warm weather things? It wasn't as if he had never done this before. He had worked for Daffyd for over five years now!
He sighed and finished drying himself. Then, after deciding that getting dressed and ordering breakfast from room service might be a good idea, he had spilled his coffee on his white shirt and had to get changed. The front desk rang back with his second wake-up call. He had been so frustrated and angry by this time that he had wanted to scream incoherently into the vidphone for a quarter of an hour, but fought the urge down. The terrified face of the young clerk helped him to get a grip on the tattered remnants of his sanity. He was essentially a kind man and had no wish to see the boy dismissed, although he knew it was within his power to achieve that if he so desired.
Instead, he had forced a rather frightening smile onto his face and reassured the clerk. When the connection had been broken, he had given in to his primal urges and had raged around the room cursing volubly. He was well read, well traveled, educated and possessed an extensive vocabulary. His ire was expressed in terms unknown to many; in fact a thesaurus would have been helpless in the face of Daffyd's anger. His cursing could take on epic proportions that left lesser mortals speechless and quivering when they witnessed an episode. This remained a private performance.
During his narrative, Seren had gotten up to pour them all drinks. He paused now to sip at his. Seren was smiling and shaking her head at his series of misfortunes. Daffyd's lips moved slightly in what Seren had come to recognize as a smile. It was such a subtle thing that she thought many people would miss it altogether, and think him somber and serious. But the smile was there in his eyes, shining gently. He caught Seren's amused look and the compassion behind it. He wondered what she would think if she knew the real reason behind his morning's anger.
The run of bad luck he had experienced this morning temporarily overshadowed the events of last night. But as he had calmed down, he realized that he was more upset over his indiscretion of the previous evening than anything else. One of the tabloids had been dropping hints that his sexual preference might not follow society's ‘norm'. It was really no one's business but his own, but he knew these rumors could lead to his ruin. The classical music world was very conservative. It insisted that no breath of scandal should touch any of its members, especially the most renowned. And no one was more recognizable the world over than Daffyd ap Owen.
Last night, he had lost control of it all. He had gotten tired of the tour. In fact, his last trip home had lasted all of fifty hours. No wonder Eamon had been confused. Daffyd's calendar was such a jumble of flights, rehearsals and performances that it was a wonder the conductor hadn't collapsed of exhaustion. He had recently been through a score of cities where the orchestras had worked with him before and hadn't required many rehearsals to meet his standards. Therefore, instead of spending three weeks in each place, he had only had a week or ten days before moving on. He was tired and lonely and ready for a change of pace. Montreal had seemed ideal.
For the past several years, he had been the soul of discretion. He was seen in public with the right sort of escort on his arm, young, blond, attractive—and hired for the occasion, the transaction in cash. Now he was weary of the pretense. He just wanted to find someone he felt comfortable with, that he could be himself with, nothing hidden, no secrets. But, oh, how society frowned on the choice he would make if he were free to follow his heart. Nature had made him different from the majority, and he had learned early to hide it. The others he knew who were like him, also hid their inclinations in rough talk and badinage. However, the signals were there for those who knew how to read them, and Daffyd was an adept at this.
He was equally adept at sending discreet signs, himself. He did not often go to ‘those’ bars that seemed reserved for those who shared his preference. His face and demeanor were far too easily recognized for him to risk his reputation, indeed, his life, by being seen in such a place. Usually, when he met someone compatible it was in unlikely places; a dinner party given by the First Violin, a chance meeting in a grocery store. However, none of the relationships had amounted to anything in the long term. He was too afraid to live openly with his partners, and they eventually tired of the pretense and the sneaking around. They could never have a romantic dinner at a restaurant, but always pretended it was a business meeting, or a meal shared with an old friend. In truth, he himself wearied of the acting after a time, and the breakups were always mutual, usually graceful. Once, he had found someone so right, so perfectly suited to him, that he had almost given up his career. He had been on the verge of retiring and buying property on a remote South Pacific island when he discovered his belovèd was having at least one affair with another man.
He had been devastated by the betrayal, and had sworn never to get that deeply involved again. For the past few years, none of his partners had lasted more than a few days before he would end it. He was always direct at the beginning, and clear in his intentions. So far, he had been lucky in that none of these liaisons had been with someone eager to sell a story to the National Questioner.
Then last night, the loneliness of his life had led him to be careless. A friend had told him of an obscure little club off de Maisonneuve Boulevard in Montreal. It was called Les Copains, and catered to an eclectic crowd. He could be seen there without risking his reputation, but also might have a chance to meet someone. He had gone, not realizing a reporter who frequently sold articles to the Questioner was following him. Someone had been putting two and two together and Jess Beaulieu was out to prove the rumors one way or another.
As Daffyd sat at the bar, using the big mirror behind it to observe the room, someone had bumped his arm. His cognac spilled. He turned to speak to the clumsy oaf and found himself looking into a pair of hazel eyes that were contrite and embarrassed.
“I'm so sorry,” said the owner of the eyes. “That was terribly clumsy of me. Please ... let me buy you a new one.”
Daffyd gestured to the stool next to his. Jess smiled and sat, waving to the bartender. Daffyd's drink was replaced, and Jess ordered a beer.
“I hope I'm not intruding,” said Jess. “I mean, if you're waiting for someone....”
“No,” Daffyd shook his head. “No, I'm out alone tonight.” He smiled briefly, the smile Seren would later find so appealing.
“I see.” Jess's eyes studied Daffyd surreptiti
ously, making liberal use of the mirror and sidelong glances. “I don't recall ever seeing you here before.”
Amusement at the line sparkled in Daffyd's eyes. “No, I don't get to Montreal very often,” he said. He offered his hand. “I'm Dave,” he said, using the anglicized short form he had gone by in school.
“Jess,” said the other and shook Daffyd's hand. “So what brings you here?”
“Business,” said Daffyd. He had no desire to reveal his identity. If this person didn't recognize him, that was fine. He preferred to be found attractive for himself, not for his wealth and fame.
Jess made a polite face that said, Oh, a business trip. How nice. Let's talk about something else. “Do your business trips allow you any time for sight-seeing?”
“Sometimes. Why do you ask?” Are there sights you want me to see? he thought, smiling to himself. He waited to see where this conversation would go next.
“Oh, well, it's just that I come to Montreal quite frequently and I know it very well.” Jess smiled. “There are a lot of fascinating places most people would never find. For instance, I know of a little art gallery a few blocks over that has some very interesting paintings.” Jess had another sip of beer. “Of course, most of it is quite erotic, but some of it would offend some people, I'm sure. It might not be to your taste.”
Daffyd raised an eyebrow. He wasn't particularly interested in erotic art, but neither was he offended by it. Most of the mainstream eroticism had little effect on him, anyway, although he was partial to simple nudes. He didn't care for paintings that showed people swarming each other, but a single nude, artfully posed pleased his eye.
“Would you like to go? They're open quite late at night.” Jess smiled softly.
Daffyd raised his cognac to show that it was still more than half full. “Perhaps,” he said. “When I've finished this.”
The other nodded. “Well, why don't we move to that table; let someone else belly up to the bar.” The table in question was in a quiet corner and had just been vacated by another couple.
He acquiesced. They took their drinks to the little booth and sat across from each other. Their conversation drifted into general topics. They discovered they had been to several of the same cities overseas and compared notes on favorite places to see in London, Paris, Vienna, and Rome. Daffyd made Jess laugh out loud with his impersonation of an excitable maitre d’ whom they both knew from a little bistro near the Colosseum on the Via Arcolano. Daffyd managed to capture the Italian's accent and mannerisms perfectly, and they laughed together at the poor fellow's expense.
How can you seem so normal? thought Jess. How can you be so much fun, so interesting, and still so unnatural? The reality of Daffyd did not match the preconceived notion. Maybe the rumors are wrong. Maybe you're not a twist. Well, there's only one way to find out for sure.
“Your cognac is all gone,” Jess pointed out.
Daffyd looked down at his snifter. “So it is,” he remarked.
“And my beer is done,” Jess added with a suggestive smile, looking into the startlingly blue eyes across the table. “Would you like to go to that art gallery now?”
He thought about it for a moment, his brow furrowed as he considered the possibilities.
“Dave?” Jess reached across the table and touched his hand. The contact decided him.
“Yes. Sure. Why not?” They left their cozy corner. Stopping at the coat rail, they collected their winter outerwear and bundled up against the cold. The sidewalks had been shoveled and salted for safety, but they walked carefully, hands thrust deep into coat pockets for warmth. They looked like any two friends out for a nighttime stroll.
“You know, my hotel is on the way to the gallery,” said Jess. Somehow, Daffyd wasn't surprised to hear this. “We could pop in there and warm up. I didn't realize it had gotten so cold!”
“If you like,” he replied. He didn't believe in revealing himself too early in a potential liaison. He liked to be certain where exactly he stood before committing to any action.
Jess took him up to a small room in an elderly, but clean-looking hotel. He declined the offer of rum and juice. He had already reached his self-imposed limit in the bar. Jess had suddenly seemed nervous, but that was not unusual under the circumstances. Something, though, nagged at Daffyd's subconscious. Something didn't feel quite right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He had opted for hushing his intuition. Having been celibate for over a year, mostly by choice, he was more than a little interested in what the evening might hold in store.
Jess crossed the room, ostensibly to check the heater below the window, and to make sure the curtains were tightly closed. In reality, it was also to make sure the vidcam was in place and carefully concealed by the heavy drapes. With the touch of a finger, it began to record. Jess returned to Daffyd, took his overcoat, and tossed it on one of the beds. They had both already removed their boots to prevent tracking snow and salt all over the carpet.
“Look, I'm all slushy and wet from that car that went by. My pantlegs are soaked! Why don't you make yourself at home, and I'll put on something dry and more comfortable. Okay?” A flash of eyes, a meaningful glance and the click of the bathroom door closing.
Daffyd removed only his casual jacket and sat down in a chair to wait. He wasn't about to get undressed without being absolutely certain he had read the signals correctly. However, a few moments later, the bathroom door opened again. A leg appeared, followed by a hand, and then a body clad in a silk kimono. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He had not mistaken the signals tonight.
He stood with the intention of putting his arms around this delightful vision, but he was gently restrained.
“Let's lie down and get comfy, okay?” came the soft whisper in his ear. He let himself be deftly maneuvered into facing the windows, stretched out on the bed while fingers not his own unbuttoned his shirt. When the fingers reached for his belt, he stopped them.
“No, wait a bit,” he said, preferring not to rush into it. He had never been a ‘this won't take long, did it?’ kind of man. He enjoyed tenderness, and kissing, and caressing. While Jess returned his kisses, it was with a curious lack of enthusiasm. The fondling Daffyd was receiving was almost mechanical and he began to wonder if he had been picked up by a prostitute of some kind. There was such an artful avoidance of his touch that quiet alarm bells began to sound in the back of his mind. But he ignored them and persisted in his efforts. Jess had had to give in, or blow the whole cover.
With closed eyes and rising gorge, the reporter focused on the faithful woman waiting at home. Marie knew what her ‘Significant Other’ was up to, the kind of story under pursuit, but not the actual target. All she knew was that Jess was out to expose some famous man as a twist. She hated it, but was as supportive as she could be.
“If you have to kiss him, okay. Even if you have to touch his ... well, you know. But nothing more than that, or we're through!”
Jess had promised and now was trying to fend off ap Owen's wandering hands. It was manageable until Daffyd's hand stroked up Jess's inner thigh. The reporter couldn't fake it anymore and had pushed him away. Surely there was enough on the camera by now, at least enough for some really good stills. Enough was enough! She pushed him away.
“Stop it, you sick twist! Get your filthy hands off me!” She sprang from the bed, grabbed the camera and locked herself in the bathroom. Daffyd's heart had sunk through the floor. He had been set up, and had taken the bait: hook, line and sinker.
He rearranged his clothing, donned his winter gear and left. There was no point in creating a scene and having the police come. The scandal would only hit the papers that much sooner. He left the hotel and walked briskly down the dark street, careless of the winter conditions. He was angry at himself for ignoring his intuition and letting himself be ruled by lust, and he was dismayed at Jess’ deceit and treachery.
As soon as he was gone, Jess peeked out of the bathroom, then double-locked the door against his possible angry re
turn. She reviewed her video. Perfect! Ap Owen's face was clearly recognizable, while her own identity remained concealed. However, her gender was obvious. This was going to be her big break. She decided to offer stills to the other tabloids. Maybe she could start a bidding war. This could mean big money for her and the recognition she felt she deserved. Rumors had been circulating about the conductor off and on for years, but no one had ever been able to prove anything. And now, she had this wonderful video.
She picked up the vidphone and called home.
“Hi, honey,” she said when Marie's face appeared on the tiny screen. “I got the job done! You'll have to see the tape ... no, no ... I didn't have to do too much. Well, I had to kiss him, and let his hands wander some, but that's all I could stand ... what do you mean, did I like it? Ewwwwww. Marie! He's a man. Would you enjoy kissing a man? No, I didn't think so. Anyway, I want to have a quick shower, get the feel of his hands off me. I'll be home soon. Love you.”
She broke the connection, thinking it would be nice to bring home wine or flowers or something to show Marie how much she appreciated her support and understanding. Maybe she would stop and pick up some Chinese food as a treat. Marie had stuck with her through some pretty lean times, and Jessica wasn't always easy to get along with when money was tight. But now....
She watched the video one more time, suppressing a shudder as she relived his touch. God, what made some people be that way? It was disgusting! One current theory said that hets were born that way, but she didn't believe it. She was convinced that somewhere along the line, something awful happened to turn them off their own gender and seek the opposite one. She didn't really care what had made ap Owen twisted, although some background research might be in order. If she could tie his heterosexuality to a domineering father, or a molesting babysitter or something, it would extra zing to her story. Maybe she could do a sidebar about the causes.
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