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At half six on Wednesday evening, Dare filed into the meeting room and made his way to the far side of the circle of chairs. Most people were still hanging out by the tea and coffee urns, but after getting used to his pod coffee machine, Dare didn’t think he’d enjoy the weak brew they served up here. Bleedin’ Mr. Posh Suit Grant, getting him addicted to the finer things in life. Next thing he knew he’d be drinking red wine and going to the sodding opera.
Yeah, so not going to happen. These were his people. Ordinary folk, not like Grant and his bourgeois ways.
The Action on Addiction families and friends support group met up every week, but Dare only made it along about once a month. There was only so much baring his soul he could cope with. But as he settled down into the plastic chair and smiled at a couple of familiar faces, he was glad he’d made the effort. Working on his lonesome every day definitely had him craving a bit of human company.
There were a few new faces tonight as well, but one of them really stuck out. A business woman in a fancy-looking suit. Her hair was tied back in a neat bun at the base of her neck, and she wore specs with thick black frames that made her look terribly intellectual and serious. She looked totally out of place—like Grant would here—and for some reason, Dare took pity on her. He sat down in the plastic chair next to her and scoped out her neatly printed name sticker. “First time, Rowena?”
She smiled nervously. “How can you tell?”
“I would say I come every week, but that would be fibbing. Let’s just say you look like how I felt the first time I came along. Don’t worry. We don’t bite. Much.”
“So, how does this all work?” she asked.
“Nothing too rigid. Usually we just take it in turns to share a bit about why we’re here, and if there are any specific problems that have cropped up since the last time we were here. Brandon makes us keep that bit short and to the point. Then if there are any common issues that a few people are dealing with, or maybe something really serious that someone needs desperate help with, he leads a discussion on that. And then there’s time at the end for people to bring up anything else they want to share.”
Rowena swallowed a few times. “We have to tell everyone what’s going on?”
“You don’t have to. If you’d rather just listen your first time, that’s fine. Not everyone can cope with speaking in front of a large group of strangers.”
“God, I really shouldn’t have a problem with it. I do that kind of thing all the time at work. But this all so...personal. And so sordid. Like something off a soap opera. I don’t know if I feel comfortable sharing the details.”
“Just share as much or as little as you’re happy with. And hey, don’t worry about it. Everyone here has been through something that would make the EastEnders scriptwriters sit up and start taking notes. You can bet your life on it.”
She laughed a little then, and her body relaxed almost imperceptibly. Dare was about to share some of his story with her, but then Brandon was calling the room to order and asking people to take their seats.
“Okay, people, I see some new faces. Let’s make sure we give all of them a big Action on Addiction welcome and make them feel at home. Let’s all introduce ourselves to our neighbours on each side. Come on now, don’t be shy.” Brandon beamed round the room, and Dare nodded back. The bloke was all right. Bit of a twat sometimes, with all his earnest do-gooder ways, but Dare had softened towards him when he’d found out Brandon was gay too—and not only that, but ridiculously head-over-heels in love with his boyfriend.
Once the sharing circle began, Dare forgot all about his troubles. This was one of the best things about coming here. No matter how shitty he thought things were with Jase, there was always someone worse off. And there was always someone with some good news too. They were going round clockwise, so he got to share his piece before Rowena.
“Hi, I’m Dare. I think most of you know me already. I’m here because of my little brother. He’s spent the last fifteen years on one thing or another. Started with ciggies. Moved on to pot and alcohol, went through the party drugs, and for the last ten years he’s been on H. He’s never shown much interest in getting clean, and now he’s found a new girlfriend. I know I should be happy for him, and I like her, but she’s using too. Suppose I’m just worried that if he does try to give up now, she’ll drag him back down again.”
There were a few murmurs of sympathy and agreement, as well as a few pursed lips and shaking heads. Not everyone in the group liked him, Dare knew, but it wasn’t his problem if he rubbed them up the wrong way. Brandon gave him a nod and a smile, and then turned to Rowena.
For a moment, Dare didn’t think she was going to speak, but then she stood and began. She was slow and halting at first, but her speech soon picked up. “I’m Rowena, and I’m here... I’m here because of my partner. I’m worried sick about her. She works in the media, and she’s always done a few lines of coke at parties, but lately I’ve been noticing she’s doing it more. Whenever we go out for a drink, and sometimes when we have friends back to ours too. She’ll head off to the loo, and when she comes back, she’s all bubbly again. Like she was when we first met. She won’t admit she’s using more, but last week I found a large bag of white powder hidden in her underwear drawer. As far as she’s concerned, she doesn’t have a problem.” Rowena shrugged and gave a bitter smile. “I haven’t told her I’m coming here, but I wanted to speak to some people who might understand what I’m going through, and I wanted to find out more about staging an intervention. Is that even a good idea? I just don’t know. Anyway, thanks for listening.”
Rowena took her chair with obvious relief, and Dare took her hand to give it a squeeze. “You did well,” he whispered.
“Thanks,” she whispered back.
“So,” Brandon said, when they’d all said their pieces. “I think it would be good to share our experiences, negative and positive, of staging an intervention. Now, I never would have dared with my ex, but I think some of you are a lot braver than I was. Who’d like to kick us off?”
The room was quiet for a few seconds, and Dare eventually stuck his hand up. “I wish someone could tell me the right way to do it, because I’ve tried with Jase, but I’ve never got anywhere. He’s been furious every time I’ve tried. He’s hit me. Stormed out. One time he disappeared for three weeks. I thought he was dead.” He turned to Rowena, apologetically. “Now, I’m not saying your partner is a manipulative little shit like my brother, but if she’s not accepting she’s got a problem yet, then all the interventions in the world aren’t going to do any good. They might even destroy your relationship. I mean, I’ll always be Jase’s big brother, but it isn’t like you’ve got a family bond in that way.”
A few people were nodding in agreement, but a mumsy older woman who particularly disliked Dare started voicing her objections in no uncertain terms. Dare sat back and let it wash over him. He’d heard it all before. The people who responded with tears and gratitude—whose drug use had been a cry for help all along. But it wasn’t like that with Jase. He wasn’t using to draw Dare’s attention. He already had that. He was using because he couldn’t deal with real life. Maybe it was all simply down to the fact Jase had been so much younger than him when their mother died, and that he just couldn’t deal with losing her. He’d always been a sensitive kiddie. Dare had had to pull bullies off him at school several times, and in the end, they only left Jase alone because he put the word out he’d bleedin’ well kick the heads in of anyone who dared lay a finger on his brother.
But knowing all that didn’t make it any easier to figure out how to help someone who didn’t want to be helped.
After the meeting was finished, the mumsy woman with the hot tips for successful interventions came and cornered Rowena, and on his way out, Dare was stopped by Brandon.
“Hey, is there anything else you want to talk about?” Brandon asked.
“Nah, you know. Just the same old shit, different day. How’s things with you and your man?”
Brandon got a daft smile. “Great, thanks. Jos got a junior position at this fancy-pants architects he was after, so he’s over the moon, even if it does mean he has to do all the photocopying and make the tea.” Dare grinned at the idea of the muscled blond Dutchman being an office dogsbody. Jos and Brandon couldn’t have looked more different, what with beanpole Brandon having dark skin and an afro, but they made a cute couple. Kind of sick-making at times, but it was nice to see some gay men making a proper go of it. Gave Dare hope that he might one day find a bloke who didn’t make his feet itch after a few days.
“That’s great, mate.”
“Yeah. You know, I’d be pissed off at the hours he’s working, but he’s gone and started volunteering down at the farm on Saturdays, so now we get to spend time together down there. He’s really good with the disabled kids. Patient and calm. You know?”
Dare could see it. He’d only met the bloke a couple of times, but he’d struck him with his serenity. “Wish I could be that patient and calm with Jase.”
“Yeah, but at the end of the day, you can only be yourself, can’t you?”
Dare shrugged and was about to make his excuses and leave, when Brandon smiled slyly. “So, what’s all this I hear on the grapevine about you and some hotshot, toppy ex of Mas’s? Doesn’t sound like your type, mate.”
Fucking hell. Couldn’t you keep anything private in this town? Dare had forgotten that Brandon was besties with the partner of another of Mas’s exes. That twink seemed to have them all over town. In the end, though, he decided against denying it. “I’m just having a bit of fun, you know? Never tried a suit before, but it’s kind of a challenge, getting him to unwind.”
“Yeah? You’ve got to watch the challenging ones. Before you know it, they’ve managed to get under your skin. Not that that’s necessarily always a bad thing.” He got that soppy look again, and Dare had to fight the urge to roll his eyes.
“Look, I’d best be going.”
“Oh yeah? Meeting him, are you?” Dare didn’t think he’d ever actually seen the ultra-earnest Brandon waggle his eyebrows before. Maybe falling in love really did change you. “Maybe we should set up a double date sometime.”
Not bleedin’ likely. “I’ve got to go,” Dare muttered, but Brandon followed him out into the hallway, chatting. At least he’d moved back to inconsequential stuff about his state of perpetual domestic bliss.
And Dare wasn’t jealous. Not one bit. It was better to have his freedom. He kept repeating that as visions of having another bloke around the place filled his head. A bloke who bore a striking resemblance to Grant, for some reason.
Yeah, Grant living in Matilda. Like that was ever going to happen. Dare stood back and let the alkies from the meeting room across the corridor shuffle on out of ahead of them. Watching them just reminded him of the hopeless situation with Jase, though. They might look a state, but this lot were doing better than his brother. At least they were seeking help and trying to overcome their addictions.
“Hey,” Brandon was saying. “Me and Jos were thinking, how much can you get a reconditioned camper van for these days? You know, something cute like a vintage VW.”
“Funny you should mention that. I’m doing up a couple at the moment, but unless you want a real fixer-upper, you’ll have to dig deep.”
“Shit, my budget’s pretty slim.”
“How slim are we talking about?”
“Five thousand?”
That would barely cover the costs of getting one of his rusty hulks up and running, but this was a mate who was asking, and Dare doubted Brandon earned much working for the City Farm and his various other charitable projects. He mentally ran through the vans he had waiting for some TLC. “I could probably make you a good deal on one that runs, but needs a lot of cosmetic tarting up. Reckon you’re up to doing that stuff yourselves?”
“Could be a nice project for us on Sundays,” Brandon mused. “Just what sort of stuff are we talking about?”
Dare began running through all the steps he took to get a classic camper back to mint condition, glad of the distraction from thoughts of both his brother and Grant.
––––––––
GRANT CAUGHT THE BARMAN’S attention. “Two large glasses of red wine, please.”
For the life of him, Grant couldn’t work out just why he’d agreed to come out for a drink with Lisa. Perhaps it was down to the way she’d ambushed him by the coffee machine and given him a sob story about her son’s problems at school, or perhaps he was simply missing female company now he couldn’t talk through his day with Harriet, but whatever it was, he’d agreed to a quick drink and now here he was, in a trendy bar tucked down a city centre side street.
He carried the oversize wine goblets back to the window table Lisa had secured, interrupting her doing something to her makeup involving a mirror and a brush. God, what was he doing? This felt uncomfortably like a date.
“Here you are,” he said, setting the glasses down. “They didn’t have any Merlot, but this is meant to be a good Spanish Rioja. The barman recommended it, anyway.” He took a sip and swirled it round his mouth. “Not bad, actually.” It shouldn’t have been at those prices, but you never knew what kind of overhyped rubbish these places would stock.
“Mmm, very tasty.” Lisa smiled shyly and fluttered her eyelashes.
Grant cursed inwardly. He’d have to keep the conversation on neutral ground. Nothing that could be mistaken for flirtation. “So, any more news on your son?”
It was a good topic, as it launched Lisa into a long diatribe about her evil ex scuppering all her plans to send their son to a private school. Grant sipped his wine and nodded politely at the right moments. Maybe if he let her get all this off her chest, he could then make his excuses and leave.
Eventually, though, Lisa grew less strident and more emotional. To his horror, when she finally ground to a halt she had tears in her eyes and was looking at him expectantly.
Uh-oh. “There, there,” he said, rather uselessly, and patted her hand. “So, what exactly’s wrong with the school he’s at?” he asked, none the wiser. “I thought it was one of the best grammar schools in Bristol.”
“Oh, it’s not that. It’s a good school, but my poor Chad... He’s just not getting on socially,” she complained, sniffling. “It’s too rough for him. He’s a sensitive soul, if you know what I mean. Artistic. Sometimes I worry...”
“You worry?”
“I worry he might be, well, you know.” She stared at him with wide eyes, but when Grant didn’t respond she leaned in and whispered, “I worry he might be a homosexual.”
“And that’s a problem for you?” Grant found it hard to keep the irritation out of his voice.
“Oh no, not for me, exactly. Well, I’ll be worried about him. It’s a hard choice to make, what with the bullying and gay bashing and AIDS and everything. But it’s more what his dad will do if he finds out. He’s always been totally against people making those kinds of choices.”
“I don’t think your sexuality is a lifestyle choice. It’s one of those things you can’t change, no matter what you do about it.”
“But that’s just the thing. You can, if you ask Jesus into your life to help you. Over in America, they even have special camps where you learn to pray the gay away.” Her eyes glowed with missionary zeal, but then the excitement faded. “But I just can’t see Chad going for that kind of thing. He doesn’t even like going to church anymore, and I’m worried his dad might try to force him into it if he finds out. I’m fairly sure the conversion therapy only works if you really want it to.”
Grant rubbed his forehead. He wanted to lecture her about how those kinds of places brainwashed vulnerable teenagers, but then again, what did he really know about them? He’d never been to one. In fact, despite never having considered himself a religious type, he’d probably have welcomed going to one when he was a teenager. Anything to rid himself of those worrying urges he kept feeling.
In the end, he settled for saying “Are you sure he’s gay? Being sensitive and artistic doesn’t automatically mean you’re queer.” And there were plenty of gay men who weren’t remotely sensitive or artistic, himself included. And Dare, come to think of it.
“Well, I found these sketches shoved under his mattress. Of naked men. Some of them were, you know...” She leaned in to whisper again. “Doing sexual things. To each other.”
Oh. “That does sound like he might be gay,” Grant admitted.
“Yes, I thought so.” She sounded close to tears again. “If he was normal, it would be naked women.”
Grant’s jaw ached from holding back the urge to rant about normal being different for everyone. She wasn’t so different from his own mother, really. Poor old mater was having a hard time adjusting to Grant’s “new” sexuality, but at least she hadn’t yet told him he was abnormal. She just gave him a terribly sad smile every time he saw her and kept asking him if he’d reconsider giving his marriage another try.
Lisa was still talking. Something about Chad’s amazing artistic talent, and he listened with half his attention, the rest of it wandering over the street scene outside. For a city-centre pedestrianised side street on a dark, drizzly February evening, it was still pretty busy. Cyclists whizzed past—must have been a shortcut across town—and then a ragtag assortment of people began filing out of the building opposite. At first he thought it must have been a soup kitchen, judging by the standard of personal grooming some of them displayed. But then there were a couple of ordinary mumsy-looking types, and a woman who looked like she’d have been more at home at Montague-Worthington than hanging around with the rest of these people.
And then a broad-shouldered man in a navy-coloured beanie, long black coat and combats sauntered out. God, Grant was seeing Dare lookalikes everywhere. Every shaved head he spotted on the streets set him off. This bloke was chatting animatedly with the man next to him—some black man with a huge afro—and it wasn’t till they turned to cross to Grant’s side of the street that he realised it wasn’t just a lookalike.
It really was Dare.
Grant leapt to his feet.
“Are you okay?” Lisa asked.
“Sorry, I’ve just seen someone I need to talk to,” Grant muttered. “It’s work stuff. Important. See you tomorrow.” He grabbed his coat and made a beeline for the door. It occurred to him he was probably being horribly rude, but he hadn’t particularly been enjoying himself anyway, and it was one way to break up the one-sided “date”.
When he was out on the street, Dare and his companion were already halfway down to the main road. Grant trotted after them, not wanting to risk a run on the wet, slippery paving cobbles. He glanced at the door Dare had come out of on his way. A discreet metal plaque was mounted on the wall next to the buzzer. “The Hope Street Drugs Project”, it announced.
Grant stared and stared, hoping the writing would resolve itself into something different, but it stubbornly refused to change.
Jesus Christ. Cecil had been right. Grant was screwing around with a druggie.
His feet had turned to blocks of lead, but he was aware Lisa would be able to see him there, so he made himself continue down the road. To his relief, he saw Dare climb onto a push bike and speed off around the corner.
No awkward confrontation necessary.
Grant trudged back to where he’d parked his car, his mood no better than the grotty weather. Dare was a junkie. A drug addict. And Grant had slept with him.
His standards were seriously slipping. All his mother’s warnings about the kinds of men he needed to avoid swam to the top of his mind. Oh yes, men like Dare were pretty much public enemy number one as far as Madeleine Matravers was concerned.
And annoyingly enough, that only served to make him more appealing. But Grant wasn’t about to risk picking up some nasty disease. Bloody hell. What if he already had? Okay, so Dare hadn’t come in his mouth, but pre-come and saliva still counted as bodily fluids, didn’t they?
Grant reached his car, got in and sat, unable to move to start the engine. He’d have to get tested. First thing tomorrow. There was medication you could take if you caught it early enough, he seemed to recall. He hoped so anyway. The alternative was too frightening to contemplate.