twenty-eight

Trimaran Scrimps

Trimaran

noun: a three-hulled vessel, with two hulls flanking the main hull.

Scrimps

verb, to scrimp. To be very sparing or economical.

Trimaran Scrimps was indeed a googlewhack. A googlewhack that led to the following website: au.geocities.com/ I_wish_I_was_a_Minogue.

Well, you don’t need many guesses to work out where that site was based, do you? There’s a pretty big clue at either end of it, the ‘au’ and the ‘Minogue’ both pointing to Australia. So, I thought, what’s this site all about?

I started to read:

So, what is this site all about? Well, it’s my chance to really work out who I am. Do I want to be:

A) A straight man with a steady girlfriend.

B) A shy voyeur on the fringes of the gay club scene.

Or C) A Minogue?

Crikey. This website belonged to one very confused man. It explained that he worked in the financial district of Sydney. At the end of his working day he would go home to his girlfriend. They shared a flat and were very much in love. What his girlfriend didn’t know was that once every couple of months he’d go out cruising on Sydney’s vibrant gay club scene. She was also unaware that he wanted to be a Minogue.

It seemed his gay friends knew nothing of his straight life and his straight friends certainly knew nothing of his gay life. The only place in which he was honest about the two was in his website, although for obvious reasons he remained anonymous.

He seemed tormented by his double life and claimed that he wanted to choose Option A or B, adding, ‘I can’t lose C as I will always want to be a Minogue!’ The prime concern of his website was inviting visitors to let him know what they thought of his life. He asked for advice, guidance, criticism and even abuse in the perhaps forlorn belief that if he read enough opinions it would help him come to some sort of conclusion about how to live his life.

I suppose his website was his own personal Jerry Springer Show, a chance to workshop his complicated personal life in public.

From my point of view it provided a glimmer of hope. There, at the bottom of the page, were the words, ‘Happy 2003’. Not, ‘Completed September 25, 1996’, not ‘This Home Page was created by WebEdit, Monday, October 26, 1998. Most recent revision Monday, October 26, 1998’, the phrases that had spelled doom for me the last time I’d been at nine in a row. No. ‘Happy 2003.’

I knew where in the world he lived. I knew there was a link to an email address that would work, and I knew it was a current website, a living, breathing website. And I knew that he was 10,000 miles away and that time was running out.

*

‘Hi,’ I said, as I reached the front of the queue. ‘I applied for an Electronic Travel Authority but the website said I had to visit my local embassy. There was some kind of problem.’

‘OK,’ said the cute girl behind the Australian Embassy counter, her inflection rising sharply at the end of the word. ‘Can I take your passport?’

‘Of course you can,’ I said, my accent wandering towards hers, my inflection rising sharply at the end of the sentence too.

‘I’ll just be a couple of minutes,’ she said, sliding down from her stool and disappearing round a corner.

I still hadn’t had a reply from I_wish_I_was_a_Minogue but obviously I had to be able to get into the country to meet him and there was no point waiting to find out. I imagine she was running through some checklist to see if I was a desirable visitor or not. I bet imitating the Australian accent at the counter had blotted my copybook.

‘There you go,’ she said with a smile as she handed the passport back.

I flicked through the pages, looking for the new documentation.

‘There’s nothing here,’ I said. ‘Have I been turned down?’

Maybe I could pay for I_wish_I_was_a to come to England?

‘It’s electronic,’ she said, ‘there is no paperwork. It’s all fine.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, feeling a little foolish. ‘Do you mind me asking what the problem was, why I had to come in, in person?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing really,’ she said. ‘Someone with the same name as you and a very similar birthday is on our list, so the computer flagged it up.’

A few years ago that would have been music to my ears, proof that another Dave Gorman existed, a sniff of a lead that might eventually take me to another namesake encounter. But that was a few years ago. This namesake had caused a problem with the ETA. He’d delayed me, held me back when time was of the essence. It seemed a cruel twist of fate that now, the success of this quest had been jeopardised by another Dave Gorman.

*

I headed home and checked my emails once more, praying that I would see I_wish_I_was_a_Minogue’s name in my inbox. It wasn’t there. I sent him another email. It was probably my fifth or sixth so far.

I checked the details for flights to Sydney. It was still possible to meet Trimaran Scrimps on 1 March if I flew now. If I left it any longer I would be too late. I wouldn’t be able to get there before my birthday. I had no choice. I could wait for him to reply but that would guarantee failure or I could go now, fly blind, and give myself a chance of success. If I waited a day and found a reply from him agreeing to meet me it would be impossible to get there on time. I could meet him, but I would be 32 years of age. That would make me a failure.

I headed to Heathrow Airport. I got online at an internet kiosk and booked myself into a cheap hotel in Sydney. That was it; I was committed. I surfed in to my bank account and checked the balance. I knew how much money Jake had given me, I knew how much money I’d spent. I knew I hadn’t written one solitary word of the novel and I knew what that meant. Legally, contractually, morally, completely correctly, I owed Jake all of that money back.

I looked at the small amount of money propping my account up and knew what I had to do. Sod Jake, sod reality, sod everything, there was a fire in my belly. I knew this was my last throw of the dice; win or lose, this was the last trip I would be making, this was Custer’s last stand, Gorman’s last ’whack and I, David James Gorman was going to fly business class.

I put my credit card down and bought the ticket before visiting a bureau de change. I emptied my pockets and my wallet of all the money I had, a few pounds and quite a few more US dollars, and I changed it all into Australian. I’m pleased to report that the Australian economy wasn’t faring very well and I got a lot of Australian currency for my money. I felt quite rich with a business class ticket in my pocket and a deceptively large wad of Australian cash in my hand.

There were a couple of hours to kill before the flight so, as usual, I headed to a bookshop for a browse. Even with the relative luxury of business class to look forward to, the rule never, ever, ever set foot on a plane without a book to read still stood. Especially when I was facing a journey time of more than 24 hours. I picked up Black Box by Nick Walker because I’d never heard of it and The Water Method Man by John Irving because I had. John Irving, I noted, shared my birthday, so it seemed appropriate that I might share my birthday with him. I’m a twin and I still think of birthdays as something to be shared.

It was only as I approached the till and pulled out my wallet that I remembered that I had no British money on me. A few coins maybe, but not enough to cover the cost of my reading matter. I opened my wallet, hoping I was mistaken and a mysterious fifteen pounds would float out from some hidden flap or pocket. And it almost did. As I rustled through wedges of receipts vainly hoping to discover some errantly stowed fiver a flash of silver foil caught my eye. I stopped. My thumb and forefinger retraced their steps back a little: there it was. The foil was embossed on to one of two book tokens. Fifteen pounds’ worth to be precise, my winnings from the Observer cryptic crossword, stuffed into my wallet and long forgotten.

‘Yes!’ I said under my breath as I punched the air. A few people stared awkwardly. Punching the air isn’t very bookshop behaviour.

*

I climbed out of the taxi and walked into the lobby of the hotel. It was nearly 11 pm on 28 February. I had 25 hours in which to meet my man.

My hotel was one of many offering cheap accommodation in and around Pitt Street, a lively, well … studenty … well, all right, downright grotty part of an otherwise stunningly attractive city. It was full of late-night bars and tatty shops and, I was delighted to discover a parade of three, adjacent 24-hour internet cafés.

Before going to bed that night I checked my email one more time. Not one of the names in my inbox expressed any desire to be a Minogue. I wrote yet another email.

From: Dave Gorman

To: I_wish_I_was_a_Minogue

Subject: Please!

Hi I_wish_I_was_a_Minogue,

Me again. I’m just writing to let you know that I’m in Sydney. You know that I want to meet you. Well now you know how much I want to meet you. Enough to travel this far.

By the time you read this it will probably be March 1st. That’s the day I need to meet you. The day after is my birthday and that means my time is up.

I know you’ve had a few emails from me already, but I wanted you to know how much this means to me. I only need one minute of your life and I will obviously travel to wherever you happen to be.

This means the world to me. I’ve come this far, please call me at my hotel on (02) **** **** or email me at this address. I’ll try to check them both as often as I can.

Please look kindly on this request IWIWAM, I need this to happen.

Dave

I pressed send, waited for ten minutes and checked for a reply. Finding none I returned to my hotel. It was clean, basic and cheap with white plastic furniture and no frills.

Exhausted, I fell into bed and closed my eyes but, like a ten-year-old on Christmas Eve, I didn’t sleep for hours. My big day was tomorrow, I wanted it now and I was afraid that if I let sleep take me I would miss it. Of course, time kept on ticking by at one second per second and eventually sleep won out.

*

At 9.30 the next morning I was back in the internet café, checking my emails again. Was there a Minogue in my inbox? I should be so lucky. I wrote another email begging him to meet me and returned to the hotel, hoping for the phone to ring.

At 10.20 I was back online. At 10.40 I was back in the hotel. I yoyoed between the two all day. Each time I checked there was nothing and each time I wrote him another email imploring him to meet me. Time was running out but I wasn’t giving up; reader, I harried him.

I was in one of the world’s most beautiful cities, a city that was young, vibrant, brash, bold and exciting but I wasn’t able to enjoy anything that Sydney had to offer apart from the sensory deprivation chamber of my room, and a downbeat internet café full of teenage backpackers playing network computer games against one another as if that was what a gap year was for.

It was a day of heartbreak. Every time I visited the café, I allowed my hopes to rise only to have them dashed on the rocks moments later and then, at around half past six, for the first time, I saw I_wish_I_was_a_Minogue’s name in my inbox.

My heart stopped. Then accelerated. This was truly it. I held the mouse over the link and tried to click but my finger wouldn’t obey. My index finger seemed frightened that it would be held responsible for what it was about to uncover. I focused all my energy on that button, on that finger, I reassured my digit that it would be OK and finally it moved.

Click.

In two, three, four agonising seconds his message filled my screen and …

From: I_wish_I_was_a_Minogue

To: Dave Gorman

Subject: Re: Go on, please meet me?

No. Sorry.

That was it. Two words. Appropriate I suppose, that a journey inspired by pairs of words should be ended by another. If you Google ‘No Sorry’ it’ll give you 11,300,000 hits and right then I felt like I’d been hit that many times, each one a punch to my gut. It was all over. I wasn’t king of the googlewhacks, I was the world’s biggest chump.

*

It was a Saturday night; there was a festive atmosphere abroad on the streets of Sydney as gangs of youngsters gathered to kick off their big night out. And I hated them for being so happy, so cheerful, so carefree. How dare they party while my life was collapsing?

As I neared the hotel it became obvious that some big event was happening that night. Huge crowds were gathering on the fringes of Sydney’s Hyde Park. (Is nothing original?) Scores of people were flooding the streets, many of them in fancy dress. The place was awash with colour and a cacophony of noise filled the air. People were honking horns, blowing whistles and hooters and there was the throaty roar of motorcycles revving engines but underpinning all that was the hubbub, the excited chatter and laughter of crowds preparing to enjoy themselves.

Hundreds of thousands of people seemed to be gathering for the world’s largest party and it felt like they were there to celebrate my failure. Have you heard? Dave Gorman failed to get ten googlewhacks in a row! Let’s paaaarrrr-ttttty!

I took the lift up to my room and closed the door behind me. I wanted to pretend they weren’t there, that the revelry wasn’t happening. I wanted everyone to be as unhappy as I was but the noise from the streets easily penetrated the hotel, trespassing on my life some more. I wanted to crawl under a stone and die. Instead I undressed, crawled under the duvet and pulled a pillow across my head to shut out the noise. Everything was silent … apart from the low, dull thud of my heartbeat and then … then the low, pathetic, hollow sobs. It sounded like someone else, but I knew that it was me. I felt detached from the world, my body numb, I felt nothing. But there I was, sobbing myself to sleep, listening only to my own tears.

*

I woke around 8 am. I was alone. I was on the wrong side of the world. I was a failure. I’d thrown away the opportunity to write a novel. I’d vandalised my body, I’d squandered so much money; why the hell had I flown business class?

Happy birthday, Dave, I thought, happy birthday.

It was a pretty bleak situation to wake up in. I wished I hadn’t woken up. I didn’t want to face the world. Out there, beyond the windows, people were getting on with life. I didn’t want to know about that. I just lay there, almost comatose, unable and unwilling to get the bed off my back. And then the phone rang and so I had to.

‘What is it?’ I asked grumpily, annoyed that I was being forced into confronting a little bit of reality.

‘It’s reception,’ said a female voice, ‘there’s someone downstairs who wants to see you.’

‘No there isn’t,’ I snapped. ‘I don’t know anyone in Sydney, you’ve rung the wrong number.’

‘No, he’s definitely here to see you, Mr Gorman,’ she said. ‘His name’s Danny and he says “Happy Birthday”.’

Thoughts started racing through my brain, crashing into each other chaotically. He knows it’s my birthday? Oh my God. Danny? It couldn’t be …? Could it really be … how? And why? And …

‘Mr Gorman?’ said the voice in my ear.

‘Yes. Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m still here. Um … you’d better send him upstairs.’

Hurriedly I got dressed, threw cold water at my face and patted myself dry.

Suddenly, sooner than I expected, there was a rat-a-tat-tat at the door. Gingerly I opened the door to see a man, a complete stranger, staring at me. He stretched out his arms like a magician’s assistant in ta-da!-mode and in a sing-song voice he yelled, ‘Happy Birthday!’

I looked him up and down. He wore a smart white shirt and dark green chinos and he had short blond hair. It felt like someone had ordered me a singing Man-At-Marks-&-Spencers-agram.

I took a few paces back away from the door, into my room.

‘Err... Thank you,’ I said.

We stared awkwardly at each other for a few moments. It felt like minutes.

‘I don’t suppose you wish you were a Minogue do you?’ I ventured.

‘Yes,’ came the simple reply. I think he blushed slightly.

‘Danny isn’t your real name is it?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he confessed. ‘But Kylie rather gives it away.’

‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ I said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘That’d be lovely,’ he said.

He walked through and sat on one of the two upright chairs. We froze awkwardly for a moment, not knowing what to say to each other. I picked up the kettle and carried it through to the bathroom. I turned the cold tap on and while the kettle filled I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot and teary. And it was his fault. I walked back into the bedroom, plugged the kettle back in and flicked the switch.

It was as though a switch had been flicked in my head also. Suddenly I couldn’t contain my rage.

‘Why didn’t you come and meet me yesterday?’ I wailed. ‘Why not? You knew how much it meant to me. You read my emails. You knew about it yesterday, you read them yesterday, you replied yesterday so you could have bloody met me yesterday! But you didn’t, did you? I needed one minute of your life. That’s all. One minute! Why? Tell me why?’

‘I couldn’t!’ he yelled, his anger matching my own, throwing him forwards out of his seat and shocking me into silence. Tears were welling up in his eyes. ‘I couldn’t do it. Yesterday was the hardest day of my life. Every year it happens and every year it’s the hardest day of my life. I couldn’t do it.’ He started to blub, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘I couldn’t do it and I’m sorry.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, my anger dissipated, replaced by confusion and concern.

‘Yesterday was Mardi Gras,’ he said through gritted teeth, trying to fight back his tears but giving in to them.

‘What?’

‘Mardi Gras,’ he said, angry that I wasn’t taking in all the information he thought his words contained, angry that I was forcing him to talk some more. ‘It’s a gay and lesbian parade. It’s huge. 400,000 people come out to watch it go by, not just the gay and lesbian community; grandma and granddad and mom and pop and kids in pushchairs go out to watch the parade.’

‘I heard it’ I said. ‘Last night, I heard it.’

‘My girlfriend loves Mardi Gras,’ he said, his eyes wide and wild, ‘and she expects me to go with her, and I do. And every year I stand there thinking, this is the moment my two lives collide. This is the moment it all goes wrong. I see gay friends of mine in the parade, I see gay friends of mine in the crowd. I see straight friends of mine in the crowd and I don’t know who I am.’ The tears came again. ‘I. Don’t. Know. Who. I. Fucking. Am!’ he screamed. ‘How do I wear my hair? Is my collar up or down? How do I stand? How do I speak? Which me am I that day? I live all day with my heart in my mouth knowing that it could all implode, that someone might say something to bring it all crashing in on me. I have too many secrets and I’m in too deep and I can’t turn round and I don’t know what I’m fucking doing but I do know that Mardi Gras is always the most difficult day of my life and I couldn’t cope with you as well. You know about my website. My girlfriend doesn’t. It couldn’t happen. I couldn’t meet you, and I’m sorry, but we all have our shit to deal with!’

Silence.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. It never occurred to me when I wrote any of my emails that I was ever making anyone else’s life more difficult. I apologise. I’m sorry.’

As I said that the kettle reached its peak, bubbling away, shaking slightly and as it did so, my anger resurfaced, boiling, bubbling its way to the surface too.

‘But why have you come to tell me this now!’ I yelled. ‘It’s hard enough being me this morning without knowing that I made somebody else’s life harder. I’m struggling enough with my own situation, thank you very much.’

‘Really?’ he asked, indignant that I dared to be anything but contrite. ‘Well, I came by to say thank you. My website says “Tell me what you think of me”, but you ignored that, didn’t you? All you were bothered about was your stupid little selfish game. All you ever did was ask if you could meet me, you never bothered to tell me what you thought of me, did you? And then last night you did. Last night you finally bothered to give me your opinion and I thought well done him. Well done. Thank you for being so honest. Thank you for telling me what you think of me.’

Because I had.

When I’d read ‘No. Sorry’. I’d hit reply. I’d sent him one more email.

From: Dave Gorman

To: I_wish_I_was_a_Minogue

Subject: Re: Re: Go on, please meet me?

Right. Well, while I’m here let me just say that I think you’re being a complete and utter shit to your girlfriend. She is an adult. A grown-up human being. She is entitled to make grown-up, adult choices about her life based on real information as given to her by the people who claim to love her, you absolute fucking cunt.

I’m not proud of my language and I apologise for presenting you with that word but that is the truth of what I wrote at that time. I suppose I wasn’t really expressing myself as well as I’d like to think I’m able, but the red mist had descended and my vocabulary had shrunk accordingly.

‘So you’ve come to thank me for what I wrote, have you?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to take your advice but I appreciate the honesty with which it was given. Thank you.’

‘Right,’ I said quietly, filling my lungs in preparation. ‘So what we are now is a pair of dickweeds in a hotel room in Sydney. My life is royally fucked up right now and from where I’m sitting, your life is even bloody worse.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is. Maybe you can’t help me, maybe no one can. But I might be able to help you.’

‘Oh yeah?’ I sneered.

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ his eyes locked on to mine, challenging me to trust him. I met his gaze. ‘What time do you make it?’

I looked at my watch. ‘About 9.30.’

‘So what time does that make it in England?’

Slowly it dawned on me. The time difference: eleven hours. It was still yesterday in England. It was 10.30 pm! Oh. Oh my. That meant it was 11.30 yesterday back in France! I leapt across the room and hugged Trimaran Scrimps with all my heart.

‘Thank you,’ I said and he returned my hug.

I was frantic now. I ran to my bag and scrabbled around looking for the phone number I needed, then bounded across the room and picked up the phone. I dialled while my Minogue-wannabe stared in shock at the frenzy of activity.

‘Bonjour,’ said a sleepy Canadian accent.

‘Hello, David Gorman, it’s David Gorman here,’ I said.

‘What?’ he asked. I’d obviously roused him from his bed. ‘What are you doing? What time is it?’

‘I was about to ask you that,’ I said. ‘Go on David, what time is it?’

‘It’s about … 11.30,’ he said.

‘And what day is it, Dave?’ I asked.

‘It’s … it’s … Saturday,’ he said.

‘No, David, what’s the date?’

‘What? It’s … it’s March the 1st.’

‘Exactly!’ I yelled. ‘And I’m just ringing to tell you that this is the day before my 32nd birthday and I have met TEN GOOGLEWHACKS IN A ROW! I. AM. THE WINNER!’

*

‘I’d like to apologise for earlier on,’ I said to the girl on reception. She was cute with her pageboy haircut and jewelled nose stud. ‘You called my room earlier and I snapped at you. I was in a bad mood. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘Shit happens. You don’t look like you’re in a bad mood any more.’

‘No. No, I’m not,’ I grinned. I was on top of the world that day. I could do anything, even ask out a cute receptionist if I wanted. ‘But … look, I don’t want to be forward, but I’m on my own and it’s my birthday … I don’t suppose you’re finishing your shift any time soon, are you?’

*

We sat by Sydney Harbour and drank champagne together, Lisa and I, while I told her the story I’ve just told you. With the Sydney Opera House to our right and the Harbour Bridge dead ahead it was as spectacular and magical a view as I’ve ever seen. I was having a truly amazing birthday.

‘You should take a boat trip round the harbour,’ she said. ‘To celebrate.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

We walked towards the ferries along Writers’ Walk, so named because large brass medallions are sunk into the sidewalk each quoting a famous writer’s words about Australia.

‘So it started with an email from Australia and it ended with a trip to Australia,’ said Lisa.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I suppose it is quite an Australian story, all told.’

‘Come here,’ she said, beckoning me over, pointing at the medallion at her feet.

‘Who is it?’ I asked.

‘Mark Twain.’

‘Did you know he wrote most of his books in a cabin at his sister’s farm in upstate New York?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘But look at what he said about Australian history.’

I stood over the large brass disc.

‘Australian history is almost always picturesque ... It is full of surprises, and adventures, and incongruities, and incredibilities, but they are all true, they all happened.’

‘You’re right,’ said Lisa, ‘it’s a very Australian story.’

‘Come on, let’s get this boat,’ I said.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I can’t. I have to go. But you should.’

‘But I thought—’

‘No. I don’t really like beards.’