Claude offered me a ride to the garden party. And grudgingly, after I’d pushed him, extended the offer to Marcus. He did not mention whether he had also invited a partner. I thought about Claude and sex. Not about Claude having sex with me this time, you understand, but whether he had it with anyone. Or had ever had it. Maybe the first event was so awful it put him off for life? Then I started to think about the kind of sex that would seriously put you off – incest, molestation, rape – and I hoped like hell that it wasn’t anything like that because that was too appalling for words. With luck, he may have just found sex too messy for his liking. Anyway, Claude’s sex life was the least of my worries. I had no idea what the garden party would be like and was too terrified to try to imagine it. All my years of reading Nancy Mitford had only served to make me skin-crawlingly conscious of my middle-class, doily-strewn upbringing. I was not part of the ‘writing paper’, ‘scent’ or ‘counterpane’ set. I may as well be done with it and stand among them wrapped in net curtains, ‘Pardon’ tattooed on my forehead, shouting out ‘Note-paper!’, ‘Perfume!’, ‘Bedspread!’ I tried to ask Claude about the party but all he did was sigh. He would be there, I suppose. That was something.
I summoned the courage to knock on Big Man’s door and run away. The two ideas I’d floated past Claude were, from most to least wimpy, to write Big Man a letter or to front up to his flat with a cup of coffee. I settled for a medium-wimpy combination of both. I placed the takeaway paper cup outside his door, slipped a note underneath, knocked and scarpered. The note said that he’d better open his door quick before the cup was nicked, and that if he wanted me to get him anything else (beans, smokes, more beans), he could leave a note sticking out from under his door next morning (but not too far, in case it got nicked). The first time I did this I was only a bit nervous. The second time, I half expected him to snatch open the door when he heard my knock and give me what-for. The third time, I was positive he’d be lying in wait, possibly with a crowbar. But the door stayed shut. There was no note for me. The coffee cups were gone each morning when I arrived with a fresh one, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was the one who’d taken them. Apart from roping in strong men to bust down his door, I couldn’t see any way to discover whether he was alive or dead. I pressed my ear against the door and thought I heard the faint burble of television sound. I decided that was good enough. Until swarms of flies suggested otherwise, I’d assume he was alive. How long should I keep this up, though? When would it become obvious I was wasting my time? Big Man had proved he had bloody-mindedness beyond the reach of normal humans, so potentially he could hold out for decades. I decided to give it one more week and see then how keen I was to continue.
I did something else, too. Something I didn’t feel terribly good about. I went down to the Islington Register Office and put in a request for Big Man’s marriage certificate. I didn’t know when he’d got married, but because I knew how old he was, the helpful woman at the counter found his birth certificate record, which she said they could use to cross-reference. We decided that he could have got married anywhere between the ages of sixteen and twenty-nine, which didn’t narrow it down tremendously, but was better than nothing. I told the woman I was a relative and that Big Man (who, obviously, I did not refer to as Big Man) was terminally ill with a brain tumour that had caused him to lose great chunks of his memory. I was helping him to compile a journal record, with all his paperwork and photographs in chronological order, so he could revisit his life before he died. The woman was quite touched. I was disgusted with myself. Even more so because the marriage certificate was only the first step. What I really wanted was to use the information to see if I could find out if Big Man and his wife had any children. There had been no mention of children in the article I’d found on the internet. But somehow, the level of Big Man’s anger at himself was as if he believed he’d let down more than just himself.
I considered calling Gabriel Flynn, to see whether he thought what I was doing was acceptable or a one-way ticket to hell. But I didn’t. He’d told me to do research and to date that was all I was doing. Big Man need never know I’d been prying. No one need ever know …
Writing emails doesn’t really count as writing, but I told myself it did, and busied myself with messages to Simon, Michelle and Adam.
The message to Simon confirmed that the offer of a bed for a few nights was still on. I said I looked forward to seeing him, which was very true. With a small start, I realised that Simon and Marcus, while different in every other respect, did have one thing in common – they liked to wander about the house naked. To be fair, I’d only seen Simon naked once, when he stayed with Tom and me one Christmas. But he had admitted it was something he did often – in his own home, he hastened to add; he’d temporarily forgotten he’d been in ours. My lasting impression of Simon naked was, fortunately, not of his bits but of the rest of him. Simon has always looked rather bent and stringy from the outside, but that morning in my hallway, I was almost shocked to see that he was as strongly muscled as any athlete. I supposed it was all that rock climbing; his arms looked like something Leonardo da Vinci drew as an anatomical study, all sinews and veins and lean, hard muscle.
I gave a small shudder. Having my brother and my lover both naked in my head was not to be recommended.
But as I hit send, it occurred to me that I knew very little about Simon’s love life. He’d never married. When I was in my teens and he in his thirties, he’d had a girlfriend for several years, another rock-climbing scientist with some short, practical name, like Jan or Pam. That ended over a decade ago, and I realised I did not know who, if anyone, had filled the years between then and now. I had a moment of intense sadness at this. Why, I wasn’t sure. Either I felt I should know more about my only brother, even if he were just a half, or I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone being alone. I certainly couldn’t bear the thought of me being alone. I vowed to grill Simon about his personal life when he came to stay. I hoped he would tell me he’d never been happier.
The messages to Michelle and Adam were about the nineteen thirties. Dresses and shoes, to be exact. And hair. And shades of lipstick. I’ve watched a whole bunch of Agatha Christie videos, I told them, and I have the vibe. But where to get? Try the vintage shops, said Michelle. Or find an old pattern. Can you sew? Actually, I can, I replied. But I have no machine here; I always borrowed my mother’s. Adam said: I have a slinky white satin Jean Harlow number I can Fedex to you if you like? I said: it’s a garden party, not the KitKatClub. Thanks, anyway. Ooh! said Adam. Just remembered! Good friend is West End theatre wardrobe manager! I quizzed: how good a friend if only just remembered? Good friend means slept with, Adam explained. Friend just means friend. Only did it once and quite drunk at time, hence temporarily slipped mind. Would he remember Adam, or memory lost forever in haze of drunken stupor? No, no, said Adam. He’ll remember. He gave me the Jean Harlow dress. Here’s his phone number. His name is Ambrose.
‘My knees are terrible.’
‘Mm-hm …’
Ambrose cared not a jot about my knees. He was on a mission. In front of him was a rack of clothing. There was also one behind him, and to each side. In fact, so much clothing surrounded us it was hard to breathe. It was like being trapped in the den of a dry-cleaning fetishist.
A green dress was thrown up against me and whipped away. ‘No,’ pronounced Ambrose. ‘Puffed sleeves abominate. Sleek must be our watchword.’
Sleek was certainly the word for Ambrose. In the stuffy, over-warm wardrobe room, he’d quickly removed his leather jacket. The tight black singlet underneath revealed smooth, buttery skin taut over a solid, gymhoned torso and arms. He was my height, no more than five seven. He wasn’t slim, but neither was he fat. With his shaven head, he brought to mind the slickly padded muscularity of a seal. I thought of Adam, who was good looking enough but six foot three tall and an inch wide, with skinny limbs all a-gangle, and I had a sudden, vivid image of a spider and a fly getting it on in the middl
e of a web.
Ambrose mistook my shudder as a response to the dress he was currently holding up.
‘Too mumsy?’
The dress had three-quarter sleeves, a belted waist and black flowers dotted on a cream background. It was quite pretty but not in the least bit sexy.
‘Um–’
‘The curse of thirties daywear,’ he sighed, slotting the dress back on the rack. ‘It makes you look like either Shirley Temple or an advertisement for Oxo cubes. Are you sure I can’t interest you in bias-cut floor-length red satin?’
‘At a garden party?’
‘Glamour should never be curtailed by convention,’ he sniffed.
Coat hangers clattered as he snapped through the outfits. He held up a bright blue satin shirt with short cap sleeves, fitted tight and buttoned low. ‘This a fab thirties look. See? You knot this little matching tie around your neck, bow to one side. Very jaunty. Very Amelia Earhart-lesbian-adventuress chic. I’m sure we could find some wide-legged pants to go with it.’
‘It’s a great shirt,’ I agreed. ‘But I really think I’d rather have a dress.’
Truth was, I wanted to look as sexy and gorgeous as possible for Marcus. Lesbian pants were not going to cut it, no matter how chic.
‘Well, then. Fancy being Miss Joan Hunter Dunn?’
Ambrose held up the cutest tennis dress. White pleats, sleeveless, a grey knit tie slung low on the hips as a belt. It was wonderful. But it was very, very short.
‘Knees, Ambrose. Terrible. Remember?’
He tutted. ‘So, so demanding …’
‘You know,’ I ventured tentatively, ‘glam could be all right. If the skirt wasn’t trailing along behind me. Risk of wet grass and all that …’
Ambrose raised a speculative eyebrow. ‘And pourquoi this sudden reversal?’
I blushed. ‘Well, it is a posh party. And I’ll be meeting most people there for the first time. Plus, my partner looks spectacular no matter what he’s wearing–’ I made an apologetic face. ‘In short, I think I’d rather be over-glammed than under-.’
There was a short pause, as Ambrose sized me up. ‘Hmm,’ he said.
Then he turned back to the racks. Hangers clattered and in a trice, he was holding up two dresses.
‘Oh …’ I breathed. ‘Wow.’
One was pale creamy gold satin, sleeveless with a smooth bodice but the most amazing skirt that dropped in inverted herringbone triangles from hip to ankle. The neckline was high but adorned with a sparkling thing – like an upside-down tiara tipped with an art deco star. The other dress, also sleeveless, had layers of pale pink chiffon falling softly over crêpe panels, with one wide, pink-beaded stripe along the straight neckline and another under the bustline that accentuated the boobs. I could not decide which dress I lusted after more.
‘Of course, neither may fit,’ Ambrose added crushingly. ‘Though stage actresses can certainly get away with being heftier than their screen sisters.’
He held both up to me in turn. ‘The pink does less for your colouring. But the shade is more “day”, if you know what I mean. Here,’ he handed it to me, ‘try it on.’
I glanced around. ‘Er …’
Ambrose’s eyebrow shot up again. ‘I have seen more naked people than a Berlin bathhouse attendant. Believe me, nothing about your anatomy could possibly shock, or for that matter, interest me. Come along. Whip it off.’
The pink dress did fit. So did the gold satin.
‘Which one?’ I demanded.
‘Which one feels more like you?’ Ambrose asked.
I gazed at him. ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘Neither, I suppose.’
‘Hmm. What will your spectacular partner be wearing?’
I didn’t know that, either. And I found that embarrassed me more than getting down to my smalls in front of a buff gay man I’d only just met.
‘Oh – um,’ I invented. ‘Something to do with cricket? I don’t think we have to match,’ I added, hastily.
Ambrose nodded. ‘Go with the satin,’ he ordered. ‘You wear its simplicity better.’
I changed back into my clothes. Ambrose found a bag and folded the dress into it. He handed me the bag along with a pair of shoes. They were cream leather with a small heel and a thin strap across the front at ankle height.
‘They’ll fit. I checked the size of the shoes you’re wearing. They’re not a perfect match with the dress but very suitable for treading on aristocratic lawns.’
‘Thank you so much,’ I said. ‘You’ve been a lifesaver.’
He picked up his jacket and hooked it on his finger over one shoulder. He gave me another speculative look.
‘Let me know how it turns out,’ he said. ‘That kind of thing always intrigues me.’
I realised later that I wasn’t entirely sure what he was referring to.
Swear to God, the sheer relief of having found a pretty dress temporarily unhinged me. By the time I turned down my street, I was entirely lost in a nineteen thirties fantasyland. Marcus and I were in a white and chrome Bugatti convertible, roaring down the country lanes. It was right out of a Margery Allingham novel, or possibly Georgette Heyer. I swear that Marcus may actually have been about to say ‘Happy, darling?’ when I collided with something that knocked the breath out of me.
It was Anselo. Or, more accurately, the big load of wood he had in his arms. He stayed upright. I fell smack on my backside. I sat there on the footpath, my legs splayed straight out in front of me like a wooden doll, clutching my bag and gasping at the pain in my tailbone.
Anselo stood over me, scowling. ‘I’m carrying half a fucking house. How could you not see me?’
I could hardly reply ‘because I was driving flat out in an imaginary Bugatti’. As it was, I was barely able to wheeze out a ‘Sorry …’
Anselo dumped the wood back in the van, and bent down to me.
‘You all right?’
I shook my head. ‘I think I broke my bum. You’d think there’d be enough padding for it not to hurt like this, but no …’
Anselo grinned. He took the bag from me, held out his other hand and helped me up.
Gingerly, I felt the base of my spine. ‘Ouch! Bloody, bloody ouch!’
‘I’d offer to rub it better, but–’
His smile was hesitant, as if he were testing the ground. I had a sudden hunch that this might be his way of apologising for the sulks of the past week. He was holding my bag in a slightly defensive manner, in front of a t-shirt so old and ripped and covered in sawdust, I could only just make out the image on it. It was a Stranglers album – The Raven. Tom liked The Stranglers. ‘Peaches’. ‘Duchess’. ‘No more heroes any more …’
Anselo was speaking to me. I tuned back in to hear ‘–a drink.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I was made momentarily deaf by the pain in my arse.’
He gave me that half grin again. ‘I said – I could apologise by buying you a drink. At five, maybe? I’ve got to, um, head away by six-thirty, but if that’s OK?’
It wasn’t the most articulate invitation, but it was quite sweet, nonetheless. I had no idea what we’d talk about for an hour and a half, but I could hardy refuse.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’d like that.’ I nodded at his sawdusty t-shirt. ‘And if we go to that pub on the high street, you won’t even have to change.’
He handed me back my bag. ‘If we go there, we may not come out again.’
Tyso appeared in the open doorway. He saw my bag. ‘Shopping?’
I shook my head. ‘Borrowing.’
The second dress, in fact, that I’d borrowed in order to go out with Marcus. Not that I was counting. And not that I had any bloody choice.
Anselo hooked his thumb at the load of wood. ‘Take this lot in, Tyso.’
‘Thought you were doing–’
One look from his boss and Tyso’s protest died mid-whinge. Muttering, he gathered up the wood and carried it none too gracefully into the house.
Anselo leane
d against the side of the van and folded his arms. There was a slight smile on his face as he watched Tyso disappear down the hall.
‘You’re hard,’ I remarked.
‘He needs it,’ Anselo replied. ‘He’s got three older sisters, who’ve done every bloody thing for him since he emerged from the womb.’
‘Why did he take up building, then? If manual labour wasn’t his thing?’
Anselo’s eyes shifted my way. ‘Because his father told him he had to work with me.’
‘Did you have any say in the matter?’
The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid Page 19