by Alexis Hall
Alfie stared at him, deadpan. “Yeah, last time I was in the city of Newcastle, it was full of hills and sheep.”
“Also,” added Kitty, “places like this usually turn out to be stupid.”
“Hey.” Greg gave them a wounded look. “You said it was in.”
“Oh, because fashionable is never stupid.”
“If it wasn’t for me,” he muttered, “you two would sit at the same table in the same pub drinking the same drinks every day for the rest of your lives.”
Kitty propped an elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “Sounds like heaven to me. What do you think, Alfredo?”
“I’m in. As long as it’s a proper English pub, not too quiet, not too busy—”
“Always the same two men always propping up the bar—”
“Good selection of booze—”
“And they know how to pull a pint properly—”
“And,” finished Alfie decidedly, “they do egg and chips for £4.99.”
That did, in fact, sound just about perfect. The sort of pub his dad went to, and his granddad, and probably his great-granddad.
“Well, the next time I find a restaurant in a hydraulics plant or a bar with beds in it or a rooftop hot-tub cinema, I’m not going to invite you.” Greg paused. “So I’d have to go by myself. And sit there weeping into my hot tub.”
“As if we’d ever let you do that.” Kitty leaned into him and rested her head against his shoulder, tight spirals of honey-brown hair tumbling over his arm. “Sartre only thought hell was other people because he never went to a rooftop hot-tub cinema on his own.”
“That’s not a real thing, is it?” Alfie could hear the horror in his own voice. “Because nothing on earth is getting me to a . . . what was it . . . a rooftop hot-tub cinema?”
Kitty seemed to be struggling with inappropriate mirth. “You said that about the hydraulics plant.”
“And I was right.”
“The food was nice,” offered Greg plaintively.
“Yeah, but power stations aren’t edgy features of the urban landscape. They were, like, somebody’s livelihood.”
“Isn’t it better these places get used for something?”
Alfie snorted. “Take a hipster to a restaurant in a hydraulics plant and you will feed him for a day . . .”
“A hipster,” returned Kitty gravely, “is for life, not just for hydraulics.”
“A hipster in the hand is worth two in the turbine.”
Greg glared at them over the rim of his martini glass. “Oh, why don’t you two just fuck off and get married.”
“Yes—” Kitty shrugged “—we already thought of that, but unfortunately, he turned out to be gay, so what’s a girl to do?”
Alfie shifted uncomfortably on the church pew that passed for seating in this bloody place. It had been more than a few years since he’d dated Kitty, but it still wasn’t nearly as funny as Greg thought it was.
“The good ones,” murmured Greg infuriatingly, “usually are.”
“Snobbish and smug, you must be beating them back with sticks.”
Not for the first time, Alfie wondered if it was weird that his two closest friends in this part of the world were his ex-fiancée and his ex-boyfriend. Of all the people he knew, they were the ones with most reason to hate him. But the breakup with Greg had been so easy, it had almost freaked Alfie out. With Kitty it had been more complicated, but once she’d stopped yelling and throwing things at him, and after they’d had some time apart and she’d had a high-profile fling with a rap artist, they’d gradually drifted back into each other’s lives.
“As it happens,” Greg was saying, “I have other talents.”
Alfie nodded. “It’s true. He can play the ukulele.”
“I’m so glad you said that. For a moment—” Kitty arched a brow “—I thought he was crassly implying he was good in bed.”
Greg had gone a little pink. “My reputation speaks for itself. And, for the record, I rock that ukulele. Wild thing plink plink. You make my plink plink.”
“Can’t believe you let this one get away.” Kitty gave Alfie one of her most sardonic looks.
Alfie shrugged. “He dumped me.”
“Well,” said Greg, with typical nonchalance, “you didn’t love me. You were just incredibly excited I had a dick. I can see how you got confused, but it’s not exactly a kiss to build a dream on.”
“A dick to build a dream on.” That earned him a look from Greg that could only be described as withering.
“Wait a minute.” Kitty shoved her hair over her shoulders. “Alfie broke up with me because I didn’t have a dick, and you broke up with him because you did. I’m going to become a nun.”
Greg laughed and lifted his glass. “I propose a toast. To love, to sex, and to dicks. Whether we have them or whether we don’t.”
“Or whether we are them,” Kitty added.
They clinked.
“And,” Greg went on, “don’t think I haven’t noticed this transparent attempt to be evasive. How’d it go back home, Alfie?”
Alfie stared into his drink. “Weird.”
There was a long silence.
“Well—” Greg turned to Kitty “—I feel illuminated, how about you?”
“Like I was there.”
“Sorry.” Alfie held up his hands. “That was crap. Sorry. You know how I feel about feelings.”
“Can you tell us what was weird?” asked Kitty, who had developed a sort of talent over the years for getting Alfie to talk about things. Even feelings.
“Just being home again. Everything being the same. And I . . .” God. Fen. “. . . I need a proper drink.”
He extricated himself, shoved his way to the bar, and flagged down one of the bow-tie-sporting bartenders.
“What would you like?” The man had bright eyes, even in the gloom, and a brighter smile.
“Uhh . . .” Alfie scoured the cocktail menu in a panic. “Look, just make me something.”
“Of course. Do you normally go for—”
“I really don’t care.”
Five minutes later, Alfie was handing over twelve quid and receiving, in return, an austere tumbler, untouched by cherries or umbrellas or other slices of crap. “What is it?”
The bartender smirked. “An Old Fashioned.”
“Okay.” That was something Alfie could live with. He took a sip, and found himself surprised. Possibly pissed off. “That’s not an Old Fashioned.”
“It’s a pink peppercorn Old Fashioned.”
“Do I look like the kind of bloke who wants pink peppercorns in his Old Fashioned?”
The bartender leaned towards him. Alfie wasn’t sure, but his eyes might have been greenish. “Maybe. Why don’t you let me know?”
He picked up his drink and went back to his table, unsure whether he was being mocked or hit on. Or both at once.
“Oh, what’s that?” Greg pounced on the drink and took a sip. “It’s gorgeous. Smoky and sweet and a little bit spicy. Just like you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“If you don’t want it, I’ll have it.” His eyes were on the bartender.
Alfie reclaimed his drink. “Get your own.”
“What happened in South Shields?” Kitty nudged him.
“Well, first off, I sort of came out by accident.”
A moment of silence. Then Greg was laughing. “So you fell out?”
“Don’t laugh. It’s all right for you, you were born gay.”
“Um, so were you, sweetie.”
“Yes, but I didn’t notice, okay? It’s different. There’s not, like, space for that stuff up there. But then I sort of met this guy in a bar—”
“I do love stories with a happy ending.”
“Greg, will you shut the fuck up for like two minutes? I’m trying to talk about my feelings. Which you asked about. And which I could just as easily bottle up forever like I’m supposed to.”
“I’m sorry. Please continue.”
/> Alfie sighed. “So, I met this guy, and he was sort of odd, but sort of sweet as well, and at first I thought he didn’t like me, but then he seemed to really like me, and then he didn’t like me again. And it turned out we went to the same school.”
Greg and Kitty exchanged confused glances.
“Is that a big deal?” she asked, at last.
Alfie shook his head. “Not really. Except, the thing is, I wasn’t very nice to him back then. So it was messed up. I tried to say sorry, but he didn’t want to hear it.”
“Wait, was this before or after you slept with him?”
“After. I didn’t recognise him before.”
“Wow.” Greg stared at him wide-eyed. “That is messed up.”
“Well, why would I? I haven’t thought about any of that for years. And now he thinks I’m this evil bastard, which is fucking unfair because I’m not.”
Kitty leaned across the table. “Let me get this straight. You slept with a guy, and now you’re annoyed with him because you were horrible to him at school?”
“Yes. No. I mean. No. But it was a long time ago. And he threw plant water in my face.”
“He what?”
“When I tried to apologise.”
“Plant water?”
“Yes, it’s bloody awful.”
One of Kitty’s brows twitched into a perfect, quizzical arch. “Is this like gay pepper spray?”
“No, this happened later. At his mum’s shop.”
“I’m so confused right now.” Greg propped his chin in a hand. “You had sex in his mum’s shop? My word.”
“No, I went there after he ran away from me.”
“He ran away from you?”
“No, no, not like that.” Alfie drank most of his Old Fashioned, pink peppercorns or not. “You’re making this sound way worse than it was.”
“Darling, I’m not sure I could if I tried.”
“This isn’t my fault,” muttered Alfie. “I was trying to make it right. And he threw things at me.”
“Because you wouldn’t leave him alone, by the sounds of it.” Greg’s voice was gentler than his words, but not by much.
“I didn’t want to leave him alone. I liked him.”
There was another long silence.
“Well,” said Kitty, “if that’s how you treat people you like, I can see why he started throwing things.”
Alfie’s carefully nurtured sense of resentment popped out of existence like a soap bubble. “Oh fuck.” He slumped onto the table. “I’ve fucked this up, haven’t I?”
They exchanged looks.
Greg shrugged. “Our survey says . . . yes.”
Alfie groaned. Kitty reached over and gently petted the spiky ends of his hair.
“It’s not all on me,” he mumbled. “He could have told me. And he didn’t have to sleep with me. And he really didn’t have to cover me in plant juice.”
“Generally”—Greg made his wise face—“when people do ridiculous things, it’s because they feel they don’t have a choice.”
“Bollocks. He had choices. You don’t put your cock in somebody’s mouth because you’re confused.”
Greg gave a splutter of laughter. “You have much to learn, young Padawan.”
Alfie reslumped. “For fuck’s sake, it was fifteen bloody years ago. He should be over it by now.”
“Isn’t that up to him?” asked Kitty.
“Not if it’s stupid. It’s like he’s just decided I’m some kind of fucked-up monster person based on some shit I did when I was teenager. And it’s not like he ever asked me to stop.”
“Oh right,” she snapped, “because that works so well with bullies.”
“Come on, I’m not a bully. You know I’m not.”
“And you’re telling us if he’d only said, ‘Hey, you, Alfred Bell, stop making my life miserable,’ you would have apologised and left him alone.”
Alfie reached up and clenched his fingers into his hair. “Oh God, I’m a horrible person.”
“You’re not a horrible person,” Kitty said, slightly more soothingly. There was a pause. “You’ve just done some horrible things.”
“Thanks. I feel so much better.”
“We’ve all done horrible things,” offered Greg.
“Yeah? What’s the most horrible thing you’ve ever done?”
Greg thought about it for a long time.
“Now you’re just taking the mick.”
“I’m not,” he protested. “I’m trying to think of something. Okay, once when I was using the self-service checkout at Marks & Spencers, I put a chocolate Easter egg through as garlic, and I didn’t correct it.”
Alfie blinked. “That’s the most horrible thing you’ve ever done?”
“That’s actually theft. I could have gone to a prison.”
“Mate, when I was a teenager, we nicked cars. Not Easter eggs.”
“You nicked cars? Seriously? But why?”
“I don’t know.” Alfie shrugged. “Something to do. There was this hill with a tight turn at the top called Lizard Lane. We used to race.”
“In stolen cars?”
“And we weren’t insured either.”
“Good grief.” Greg stared at him in genuine shock. “You’re a dangerous criminal. Gosh, that’s so sexy.”
Kitty cleared her throat. “Finish it later, gentlemen.”
“Look, I’m not that kid anymore.” Alfie hauled himself up again, wishing he hadn’t finished his drink. “I’d never hurt anyone.”
“I know that.” Kitty met his eyes across the table. “But you did.”
“I know. Okay. I know. I get it. I’m a shithead. I tried to say sorry. But he wasn’t having it.”
“It takes a while.”
“He’s had fifteen years. How much longer does he need?”
She made an exasperated noise. “Sometimes I wonder how you tie your shoes in the morning. Alfie, just because it’s trivial to you, doesn’t mean it’s trivial to him. You don’t just get over things, you learn to live with them. And seeing you again probably stirred it all back up.”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t a big deal.”
“You’re making me wish I had some plant juice.”
Alfie closed his eyes. “I just hate that I . . . y’know . . . that I affected someone’s life like that. In such a bad way. I didn’t mean to.”
“Well, I suppose that’s something you’ll have to learn to live with.”
Greg licked his finger and made a sizzling noise. They both glared at him. He looked sheepish. “Sorry, I got carried away.”
“I can’t believe for a minute,” said Kitty finally, “you weren’t picked on at school. Tell Alfie what it was like.”
“I went to Bedales. I was head boy.” Greg looked pensive for a moment. “Though now I think about it, when I was about eleven, Gyles Cadell walked up to me right in the middle of breadmaking—”
“You what?” spluttered Alfie.
“Breadmaking. We did it on Thursday mornings. It was very soothing. Anyway, there I was innocently kneading my dough, when Gyles Cadell walked up to me and announced, ‘You’re gay,’ and I said, ‘Yes, I am.’ And then he looked confused and went away again.”
“Wow,” said Kitty, “you must have been so traumatised.”
“Well, I’m sorry I was insufficiently oppressed for you. I’m not dead of AIDS either. And both my still-married parents like me.” He clapped a hand to his mouth. “Oh God, Alfie, I’m really sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s fine. It’s fine. I’m over it.”
“Sure you are.”
“Living with it, then.”
Kitty summoned a fresh glass of wine, and knocked back most of it. “Just so you know, I had a shit-awful time at school.”
“Oh, darling, really?” Greg patted her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“As Alfie keeps insisting, it was a long time ago.”
“I just can’t imagine it. You’re, well, I love you, but you’re terrifyi
ng.”
“Believe me, I was born to be in my midthirties.” She made a sweeping gesture. “Mine is a body one grows into. When I was a teenager, I was all limbs and hair and teeth. I was a Giant Hermione Granger.”
“You’re beautiful,” Alfie told her.
“I know. But it took me a long time to learn. And girls are vile. They hunt in packs, and prey on the weak.”
“But you’re over it now, right?”
“As I said, I live with it. And if I saw any of them again . . . well . . . I wouldn’t actively set them on fire, but if they already happened to be on fire when I encountered them, I might hesitate to spit on them.”
“So, what am I supposed to do? Be glad I wasn’t on fire when I met Fen again?”
“I think one should generally celebrate not being on fire.”
Alfie sighed and stared moodily into the shadows of the room. “I liked him, you know. Really liked him. I thought there might be something there. And now it turns out I’m just some dick-bag who made him miserable. And who isn’t worth forgiving.”
“At least you got laid,” said Greg.
“There’s more to life than sex, y’know.”
“Steady on, straight boy.”
“I mean it. I’m nearly thirty. And I’ve spent most of my life looking in totally the wrong place.”
“Which is why you need to put yourself out there.” Greg did something that was probably supposed to be a grand gesture. “Have some adventures. Make terrible, glorious mistakes.”
Kitty nodded. “I definitely approve of terrible, glorious mistakes.”
“What part of thirty are you two ignoring?” Alfie squirmed on the crappy pew thing he was sitting on. Though he wasn’t sure whether he was uncomfortable physically or . . . emotionally. “I’ve already made enough mistakes to last me a lifetime. And I don’t want to be fucking around. I want to be settling down. I want to wake up next to the same person every day.”
“Well, I want to be mercilessly ravaged by six or seven incredibly gay firemen. But—” Greg shrugged “—as a great philosopher once said: you can’t always get what you want.”
“God.” Alfie tried to get to his feet and nearly knocked the table over. “God. I wish I was straight. I want straight things, I don’t want gay things. I’m shit at being gay.”