by Matt Dunn
I’d spotted their behaviour and had quietly called Pritchard over to let him know, and then had the pleasure of sitting back and watching him tower over their table, his gruff ‘Is there a problem, gentlemen?’ eliciting the meekest of responses. I smirk as they eventually get up and leave, Pritchard still looming over them, even leaving a tip before scuttling out into the street.
Pritchard and Rudy had come over to London at the end of the eighties, when they’d tired of the New York gay scene. They’d told us that they’d lost too many friends to AIDS, and decided to come and start a new life where they weren’t constantly reminded of death and depression.
‘Well, Chelsea’s probably the best place to come for that,’ Nick had observed.
The building that Bar Rosa now occupies used to be a hairdressers, which seems somehow appropriate. They completely gutted it, redecorated, and now it’s furnished in a kind of Conran goes to Barcelona style. Large upturned barrels line the walls and serve as the tables, around which you perch on high, chrome and leather stools. The floor is a dark wood that’s been authentically aged and looks like it’s been there for a hundred years. There’s a long glass and mirror bar down one side, behind which sits the widest selection of tequila I’ve ever seen. The walls are half panelled in the same dark wood, and display a number of old bullfighting posters. Throw in a couple of those bottles-in-a-basket with wax dripping down the sides as if they’ve been host to a lifetime of candles, plus an assortment of hams and cheeses suspended for authenticity above the bar, and there you have it.
Pritchard and Rudy complement each other perfectly, although at first glance they make an unlikely couple. Pritchard is about six foot four inches tall, and probably almost as wide, although without an ounce of fat, or so Rudy tells us. He’s the kind of chap who you’d never think was gay, and certainly would never dare ask if you thought he might be. With his shaved head and goatee beard he’s a formidable sight – and one that’s been sufficient to deter any problem drinkers from causing trouble.
Rudy, on the other hand, is possibly the best-looking man any of us have ever seen. Always turned out immaculately in Versace or Gucci, hair looking like it has been professionally cut and styled that morning, each sideburn trimmed to a point so sharp it could take your eye out. He’s forever getting phone numbers thrust into his hand from tipsy ladies who lunch, convinced they can ‘convert’ him, much to his and Pritchard’s amusement.
Pritchard and Rudy have been careful enough not to turn Bar Rosa into a gay bar. ‘I don’t want this place full of fags,’ Pritchard had said once, in his booming American tones. He normally beavers away in the kitchen, overseeing a number of flustered-looking chefs, while Rudy loiters behind the bar, occasionally serving drinks but more often laughing and joking with customers while choreographing the gorgeous, white-bloused, short-black-skirted waitresses, most of whom are probably about as Spanish as I am. The food is always fantastic, including excellent tapas, and I’m just about to order myself something to eat when Mark finally walks in, looking like life caught him sleeping with its daughter.
‘Cheer up, pal,’ I say. ‘It’s supposed to be Happy Hour. What can I get you?’
‘Pint of lager and a reason to live, please, mate,’ he replies, gingerly removing his jacket to reveal a bandage wrapped around his wrist.
‘Bloody hell! What happened to you? I warned you about spending too much time looking at our website.’
‘As if!’ He looks around furtively, and in a low voice says, ‘Though it is bloody Nick’s fault. You know that new mobile phone he gave me? The one you can download music on to.’ Nick, ever the gadget man, replaces his mobile with the latest model every few months, usually passing the old ones on to friends or family. He’d shown it off to us when he first bought it, and it’s dead flash, if a little pointless.
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, I’m working from home today, and Julia’s gone out shopping, so I’m spending the morning catching up on my calls, and, not wanting to fry my brain, I’m using my headset . . .’
‘Very responsible of you,’ I say, as I order Mark a beer.
‘So I fancy a cup of tea, and while I’m in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil I decide to listen to some music on my phone.’
‘With you so far.’
‘And I’m still connected to my headset, so I put the phone down next to the kettle, and, thinking I’m still alone in the house . . .’
‘Ye-es?’
‘. . . I start dancing.’
‘Dancing?’
‘Just, you know, moving around to the music a bit. And Julia comes back in from the shops, but of course I don’t hear her.’
I’m struggling to follow this. ‘Because you’re listening to the music on your headset?’
‘Exactly. And I see the kettle about to boil, so I grab hold of the handle while I wait for it to click off . . .’
‘And?’
‘. . . and the next thing I know, Julia has picked up the mop and whacked me on the arm.’
I’m completely lost now. ‘Er, why?’ I ask, taking a mouthful of beer.
‘Well, she walks in and sees me, in her words, “jerking about” with one hand on the kettle, and thinks I’m being electrocuted. Remembering her first aid training from when she was in the Girl Guides or something, she picks up the nearest thing she can think of and smacks me with it to knock me away from the current.’
It’s all I can do to not spray Mark with beer. ‘So what did you do?’ I ask, trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face.
‘Well, having spilled boiling water all over my new phone, I couldn’t even call for an ambulance if I’d wanted to, so I made Julia drive me to casualty. Heavy bruising, they said. First my dog gives me a black eye, and now this . . .’ He waits until I’ve regained my composure. ‘Promise you won’t tell Nick?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ Yeah, right!
We take our drinks – I carry Mark’s just to be sure he doesn’t drop it – and sit down at one of the barrels. Still smirking, I’m wondering how soon I can tell Nick the story, when Mark’s next question takes me a little – no, a lot – by surprise.
‘What underpants have you got on?’
I look around to check no one has heard. Fortunately, both Pritchard and Rudy are out of earshot.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Just answer the question.’
‘Er, Calvin Klein, I think,’ I answer, not wanting to appear like a man who knows instantly the type of pants he’s wearing. But I am a man about town, so of course I’m wearing my Calvins, though obviously not with the waistband showing above my low-slung jeans, as favoured by certain rap stars and label sheep.
‘Thought so. Me too.’
I unsuccessfully try to stop an image of Mark’s less than athletic physique clad in only his underwear from springing to mind. ‘Thanks for sharing that, mate. And your point is?’
He winces as he tries to pick his pint up with his bandaged arm, and changes hands. ‘Think about it – how many pairs of pants do you think Calvin Klein sells a year?’
‘I don’t have a clue,’ I say, although I do have an inkling where this conversation is going. Mark likes to think that he’s a bit of an entrepreneur at heart, and is forever bouncing investment ideas off Nick and me.
‘Well, it must be, to use a technical term, shitloads,’ says Mark. ‘So, what if we could create a desirable brand name to rival Calvins in, and here’s the clever bit . . .’
I can’t wait. ‘Yes?’
‘. . . socks!’
‘Socks?’
‘Yeah. We do for the sock business what Calvin Klein did for underpants. We could have all these rock stars photographed with our logo clearly visible below their trouser legs.’
I’m picturing a host of celebrities with Michael Jackson-type too-short trousers, and wondering why Mark keeps using the word ‘we’.
‘Don’t you get it?’ he continues, quite animated now. ‘Every time someone wa
lks into a shop to buy a pair of Calvins, they also ask for a pair of, um . . .’ He stops short of a name for his breakthrough idea.
‘Listen, mate,’ I tell him, making sure Rudy is nearby, ‘I think it’s a commendable idea, you trying to get into men’s underwear,’ Rudy coughs loudly from behind the bar, and Mark reddens slightly, ‘but do you know anything at all about the clothing industry?’
‘Er, no,’ admits Mark. ‘But I’m an ideas man, you see.’
‘Ideas man? Isn’t that another way of saying someone who wants to get rich but doesn’t want to do any of the work?’
Mark frowns. ‘And the problem with that is . . . ?’
He’s got me there. ‘Nope – can’t see one.’
‘Exactly. Got any better ideas?’
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘how about this one? We place ads in a couple of the tabloids saying “Cut your household bills in half – send £20”. We wait for the money to come rolling in and send them back . . . a pair of scissors.’
For a minute Mark looks like he’s seriously considering this one.
‘Yes,’ I add, ‘I believe I read in the paper this morning that someone just got ten years for that very same idea.’
We’re currently running one of these scams very successfully through PleazeYourself. We offer a money-back guarantee on subscription fees, and anyone who emails in asking for a refund receives a cheque for their subscription by return. The ‘clever’ part is that the money comes directly out of an account named after the site itself, so their cheque has the inscription ‘PleazeYourself Pornographic Club’ clearly visible. Not surprisingly, very few of these cheques actually get cashed.
As Mark’s face falls I can’t help but notice the bags under his eyes. He looks up at me and lets out a loud sigh.
‘Sorry, mate. It’s just been one of those weeks. Accountant’s apathy – a bit like writer’s block, I guess. Know what I mean?’
I do actually, but as my writer’s block usually consists of my failing to come up with a new term for ‘breasts’, I don’t think it’s quite the same thing.
‘Oh well. A few more years you’ll make partner, and then retirement on the golf course beckons.’
Mark shakes his head slowly. ‘Not now Julia’s having another baby. I’m going to have to keep working at least until he or she’s finished university. That’s another twenty-one years of this, and just for what? Paying school fees?’
‘Mate, sometimes that’s just the way it is. I have days when I’m fed up with my job . . .’
Mark interrupts me. ‘How can you be fed up with your job when you don’t actually do anything except look at porn all day?’
Not surprisingly, I don’t have an answer to that one.
Mark stares wistfully into his glass. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘we took on a new client this week. He’s the same age as me, and he’s just sold his company for four million pounds. And do you know what he does? Recycles old refrigerators. Incredible!’
As Mark slumps in his chair, I see Rudy approaching, and I make a face to warn him not to make any smart comments. Swivelling smartly round, he heads back in the other direction.
‘Come on, Mark. It’s not that bad, surely?’
‘Adam, you don’t get it, do you? Unlike you and Nick, I have responsibilities, and therefore have to actually work for a living. Quite bloody hard. And then I meet people like this . . . this fridge magnate, who’ve got it all so easy . . .’ He puts his head in his hands.
Giving his shoulder a friendly squeeze, I decide to try what I believe is known as a ‘pep talk’. Mark stares down at my hand and gives me a strange look, so I remove it quickly and launch in.
‘Remember back at college?’ I say. ‘You were the one with all the ideas, all the ambition. Nick and I, well, we just kind of drifted along. But you – you’ve always known what you wanted, and gone out and got it. And yes, while Nick and I might take the piss out of you from time to time—’
‘Most of the time,’ interrupts Mark.
‘. . . the truth is, neither of us would be in the position we’re in if not for you. And neither of us could do what you do. And be such a good dad at the same time. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before one of your . . .’ I search for the right word, ‘schemes comes off, and you’ll be sitting proudly on top of your own business empire.’
He looks up hopefully. ‘You think so?’
I nod. ‘Before you know it, you’ll be flying round the world in a balloon and crash-landing in all sorts of exotic places! Come on, mate.’ I punch him playfully on his arm, causing him to yelp. ‘Where’s your fucking drive?’
Rubbing his arm, Mark manages a half-smile for the first time today. ‘It’s at the front of my fucking house, where my fucking car is parked!’
‘That’s more like it,’ I tell him.
Mark breaks into a grin, and we clink our glasses together loudly.
‘Are you okay, mate?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. Thanks. It’s just that . . .’ He struggles to work out what he’s trying to say. ‘Some days, I just want to be running my own ship.’
‘Is that what you do?’ I ask him. ‘Run a ship? Don’t you sail it?’
He looks at me, considering his answer carefully. ‘Fuck off,’ he says.
We order more beer, and drink it while I try and lighten the mood a little by telling him about Charlie. Mark, not surprisingly, is fascinated by the sneezing.
‘You mean she’s a multiple sneezer? That must mean . . .’
‘I know what that must mean, Mark. I promise to report back if your—’
Mark raises one finger, wincing slightly as he does so. ‘Cosmo’s.’
‘Sorry, Cosmo’s theory is true,’ I reassure him, and yet for some reason the idea of sharing anything too personal about Charlie with anyone seems, strangely, a little distasteful. Mindful of my missed opportunity at the party, I try to think of a way to steer the conversation on to Nick’s forthcoming wedding. Eventually, Mark raises it without any prompting, although not in the way I was hoping.
‘Great news about Nick and Sandra, don’t you think? I haven’t been to a good wedding since . . .’
‘Your parents’?’ I suggest.
Mark looks puzzled. ‘My parents’? No, they were . . . Oh. I see. Very good.’ He likes to dissect these little exchanges sometimes. ‘But seriously,’ he continues. ‘Good to see old Nick settling down at last.’
Ah. ‘But don’t you think he’s rushing into it a bit?’
Mark shakes his head. ‘Nah. He’s been looking to meet someone for ages.’
‘Exactly,’ I reply, feebly. ‘So shouldn’t he give it more than a few weeks before taking such a major step?’
‘Adam, for someone whose average relationship lasts just a few days, I would have thought that you’d see this as rather a long-termer.’
‘Yes, but it’s just, I mean, they haven’t even lived together for that long.’
Mark shrugs. ‘Julia and I didn’t live together at all before we got married.’
Yes, but only because her mother wouldn’t let you, I think. ‘Well – you don’t buy the first house you see, do you?’
Mark laughs. ‘Nick would!’
I realize that I’m getting nowhere fast. ‘I just can’t believe he went ahead and asked her without even talking it through with one of us.’
Mark gives me a puzzled look. ‘Well, that’s because he didn’t.’
‘What?’
‘I assumed he’d told you. He didn’t ask her. She engineered the whole thing, apparently.’
I stare at him, open-mouthed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, apparently they were having this conversation about what they both wanted out of life, and Sandra got all upset and said to Nick, don’t you ever want to get married, and he said, yes, one day, and she said, no, I mean to me, and he said, what, now, and she said, yes, and he thought about it for a couple of seconds, and the next thing you know they’re out choosing a ring.’
&
nbsp; I knew it. ‘What? So she actually proposed to him?’
Mark nods. ‘Looks that way.’
I bang my beer bottle down on the table in frustration. ‘That’s not quite the version of events he told me! Typical bloody Nick though. It’s just like when she moved in to his flat. That whole sob story she gave him about how she had to live in Chelsea for work – when she doesn’t even have a job – but couldn’t afford the property prices . . . He was out getting her a key cut before you could say the words “scheming bitch”.’ I stare out of the window for a few moments, and then a thought occurs to me.
‘Oh well – maybe he can get out of it then,’ I say, optimistically. ‘Surely it’s not legally binding if he didn’t actually get down on one knee or something.’
Mark scratches his head. ‘Er, I dunno. I’m not sure that it’s legally binding in the first place until they actually say “I do”, is it? But what’s the problem anyway? If he loves her and she loves him and they both want to get married, why does it matter who asked who, or who didn’t ask who?’
‘Because . . .’ Deep breath. ‘. . . He’s making a mistake.’
Mark looks at me for a moment. ‘What do you mean?’
‘With Sandra. He’s making a mistake. She’s not right for him. She’s only after one thing.’
‘Aren’t most people?’ He smirks.
‘Stop it. I’m serious. I’ll prove it to you.’ I wave Pritchard over.
‘Hey, fellas,’ he says. ‘How’s it hanging?’ he adds, adopting a cod-British accent. ‘Isn’t that what you limeys say?’
‘Not out loud, if we don’t want to get beaten up,’ replies Mark.
Pritchard makes a mock horror face and turns to me. ‘What do you want?’
‘I just wanted your opinion on something. What do you think of Sandra?’
Pritchard strokes his chin thoughtfully. ‘Sandra? Refresh my memory.’