Friday, 3 September

 

MUM CALLED.

“How are you, dear?” she asked. “Are you ready for the new term? Did you approach Duncan Harrison about that book he wanted you to write? Daddy and I think it would be a marvellous opportunity, you know. We see those Andrew Davies books in Waterstones all the time. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be a popular historian, and Germaine informs me that it’s both lucrative and—”

“Mum,” I said, the first word I managed to get in, “this is not a good time to talk. I’m rather busy.”

“Oh good. What are you doing?”

I was staring at a microwaveable ready meal at that moment, trying to force myself to open it, but not quite managing. “Working,” I said. “Is there a reason you called? Everything all right with you and dad?”

“Oh yes, dear, everything is fine here. We finally found out what was the matter with my camellias. Root decay! Would you believe it? Larry is heartbroken!”

Oh good, I was about to say sarcastically. I’m glad we got to the bottom of the thrilling mystery of what was wrong with your fucking camellias.

I was not in a good place, so I didn’t say anything. Instead I listened to her go on about honey fungus.

“But I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that,” she said. “How is your boyfriend?”

I could tell from her tone of voice that she was trying to be natural and accepting about my having a boyfriend and not a girlfriend, but it was the last fucking thing I needed to hear. I bit my lip painfully and then made myself say, “We broke up, actually.”

“Oh? That was quick.”

“Yes. I can’t really talk about it right now.”

There was silence on the other end. She was my mother. She had that thing, like spidey senses but for mothers, which told her that her baby was in distress. Her voice changed a little as she said, “It’s hard to break up with someone. You’re upset, I can tell.”

“It’s a break-up. It’s supposed to hurt, right?” My voice quivered, which was dreadful because I was trying really hard to keep it together. So hard, in fact, my stomach muscles hurt.

“Yes,” she said, “when it’s been good, it’s supposed to hurt. Was it anything Daddy or I did?”

“What? No. We’re too different. He works at a gym, for God’s sake.”

“So?” She sounded astonished. “This isn’t the 1920s, dear, and he’s not Lady Chatterley’s lover. Besides, since when do you care about such things?”

That was rich, coming from her. “I don’t!” I said, defensively. “Not really. It’s too much to talk about right now, Mum. I’m not feeling up to having this conversation.”

“All right, I won’t press you.” She sighed. “I thought he was a nice boy, though, and I’m sorry to hear you’re upset. But you know—” She stopped for a moment and then said in a lower voice, as though she didn’t want to be overheard by the help, “—before I met your father I was in love with a working-class man too. I shouldn’t really be speaking of it, and of course nothing came of it then, because the times were different and my parents had such expectations…. You’ve no notion how lucky you are that your dad and I are so accepting of you and so tolerant about what you do with your life, because in my time—Oh, never mind. The point is that we were separated.

“Then I met Daddy, and Tommy met a nice girl from his own spheres, and I think we are quite happy as we are now. But what I mean to say is that at the time—” Here she sighed again. “—at the time it was the end of the world for me. But it all turned out well again. And it will for you too.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to think. My mother had once been in love with a working-class man? That was almost so good it made me want to laugh, though it was uncomfortable to think of her with someone other than my father.

“Who was he?” I asked, because I couldn’t help myself.

“His name was Tommy Brown. And he had a great mop of brown curls, and silver-grey eyes, and he was an artist. I met him because he painted your grandfather’s study.”

He was a decorator? Now I laughed. Because it was too much. “Oh, Mum.”

“What?” she said defensively. “He was very handsome, and such a kind, sensitive soul.”

“Thank you, Mum. That’s—that’s good to know.”

“All right, dear. Do you want to talk to Daddy? He’s just come in.”

“No thanks. Later maybe.”

We said goodbye after that. I binned the ready meal. I wasn’t hungry, after all.

I’m still at Lucy’s. Can’t face going home.

Hooking up with my neighbour probably wasn’t the wisest idea I ever came up with. Serves me right to think I might actually end up in a healthy relationship that won’t blow up in my face. I feel ridiculous for ever having got my hopes up in the first place.

Lucy says I should try to be cheerful and look on the bright side—I was free again. She took it as motivation for herself and dumped Kevin once and for all. I felt bad for inspiring her to throw away a good man who liked her a lot, but I get the impression that she’d just used me as an excuse. She seems glad to be rid of him, or if not him, then the relationship, at least.

Now she wants us to go out and hook up with random people, to live up to her mantra that the best way to get over someone was to get under someone, but the thought of touching another man makes me uncomfortable right now. Then it makes me think of Alex touching another man, and I feel physically nauseated.

I called Amelia after that, because her punitive way of telling me that I’m a complete fuckwit for having fucked this up has a strangely bracing effect on me.

“You’ve brought it on yourself,” she told me today. “So what if he doesn’t want to play house with you yet? Blimey, the way you go on, Leo, you’ll never stay with someone long enough to know if it could work out. You’re his first gay relationship, that’s got to be a big deal for him, even if he seems easy-going on the outside. I mean, I don’t know what that’s like, but I can imagine it’s not the sort of thing you get used to quickly. And then he meets you, and all you want is to tackle him to the ground and have him turn his life around for you, and if he doesn’t perform up to your standard, you think this is a slight on you. It’s insane! Give the boy a chance to come out and become comfortable. This way you’ll never even get to the stage where he can talk to you about his career.”

Then she added, “What a stupid thing to have done. Can I call someone to revoke your degrees?”

Perhaps I was overreacting. Maybe it wasn’t over over. We just had a tiff. It happens, right?

But it never takes long after a call from Amelia for my mood to fall back into the gutter. After we hung up, I revisited my conversations with Alex, and really, what is there to salvage? He doesn’t take me seriously. He blew off coming to New York with me to hang out with that creep Michael. He thinks his career is more important than a life with me.

His career! And what a career! Doctor Alex Muscleman to the rescue!

And then, of course, there’s the other thing. The thing that is scarier than all the rest. Looking back, let’s face it, I’m not a dream of a boyfriend either. It’s possible that I opened a door for him to escape, and he took it because, hell, we both know he can do much better than me.

I’m sick of myself at this stage.

 

 

Sunday, 5 September

 

LUCY SAYS she’s tired of me playing “I Can’t Make You Love Me” by Bonnie Raitt over and over again. But then, when I switch it over to “Pictures of You” by the Cure, she rolls her eyes at me. There’s no pleasing that woman.

Meanwhile, Amelia called to ask why I didn’t respond to her invitation to have a barbecue at hers. Turns out she’d sent an email. She doesn’t know that I don’t check my emails anymore. I know I have work tomorrow, but I couldn’t give a toss about that either.

I thought about calling Alex again, but I worry what I might do if Michael picks up.

 

 

Tuesday, 7 September

 

I’VE BEEN brooding in my office most of the day. I saw Jack around the department. He asked me if I was all right and said that I looked a trifle pale. I told him to piss off—which, in hindsight, was probably an overreaction. I was going to send him an email with an apology, but then I just decided that I don’t give two fucks what he thinks.

It was harder to avoid Sarah, who came back from her holiday in Spain with her husband in an annoyingly cheerful mood. Naturally she immediately knew everything.

“You broke up with that hunk of yours, didn’t you, pet!” she said, watching me closely for a reaction. “Either that or someone died, but then, if any of your family had died, there’d be an obituary in the Times, wouldn’t there? With the Prime Minister chiming in, eh? Tell me nobody’s died!”

I couldn’t tell her, because that would be admitting that Alex and I broke up, and I don’t want to say that. If I don’t say it to many people, maybe it’s less true.

Meanwhile, I’m still staying at Lucy’s, but wondering if I should go back to my flat and check if there’s any post I need to be aware of. Or I could ask Lucy to go and fetch it for me. That would be easier, because I don’t trust myself around Alex.

The way I’m feeling at the moment, I’m liable to break down in front of him and weep, which would be pathetic, considering everything.

 

 

Friday, 10 September

 

WE HAD to submit our lesson plans, and I spent the day mostly on the Internet, browsing agony aunt entries on various websites around the net.

I sent Lena a text message, but she didn’t get back to me.

 

 

Saturday, 11 September

 

MARK CAME to pick me up today, which probably means that Lucy is sick of my moping and being miserable around her place. He took me out for a drive. In the car, we sat in companionable silence, listening to blues. It was soothing in its way.

Once we were out of London, he drove me to a country pub, and we had lunch/dinner.

“I don’t get it,” he said at last. “Why would you break up with a fella you still like? Makes no sense to me, mate.”

“Just because I like him, doesn’t mean he has to like me back, you know.”

“Doesn’t he? I was sure you were getting on okay.”

“We were.” I shrugged. “It’s not that simple. I’d be game if I were ten years younger and he were just a hot guy I wanted to shag. But I wanted more than that with him. I wanted what you and Amelia have.”

Mark considered this. “Have you told him that?”

“Not in so many words, no. Not after what he said to me. It didn’t seem appropriate.”

“Well, maybe he doesn’t know,” he said after a few moments of staring at the TV in the corner of the pub, half distracted by Australian rugby. He dragged his attention back to me with difficulty, even though I was watching the rugby myself.

“Once, when Amelia and I were first together, we quarrelled really badly, and she broke up with me.”

I remembered. “Yeah, she used to do that a lot.”

“Well, yeah, she did. And it was terrible. One time she broke up with me, she saw that I was really depressed about it, and she said, ‘It would have ended someday.’ I asked her why. And to this day she tells me that that was the day she knew I was serious about her. And that changed everything for her, apparently, because previous to that she only thought of me as a casual boyfriend. You know?”

“Hm, yes.” My heart was feeling really heavy, but I didn’t know whether I should allow my hopes to get up.

“The thing is,” he said, “that you’ve got this idea in your head of this perfect, romantic relationship—like in those books and movies—made up of grand gestures, like that run to the airport, like having boom boxes over your head playing Peter Gabriel. But that’s all bullshit, mate. Pure bullshit. Here’s what it’s really like. You meet someone, you like them, you spend time with them, you get closer to them than to anybody else, you let them inside yourself. And then, when they leave there’s this huge fucking gap, and it hurts like hell. No moment defines this. Not even your last quarrel. The moments, the good ones and the bad, are just things that happened in the history of Alex and Leo, you know?”

“Yeah, right,” I said, half laughing, half sniffling.

He let out a chuckle, and we both turned to the telly to let the moment pass with minimum awkwardness. The Sydney Roosters beat the Wests Tigers in golden point extra time.

 

 

Sunday, 12 September

 

GOT A call from Jack this morning.

“I’ve got something that might interest you, assuming you haven’t given up on your career entirely?”

“What do you have for me?” I asked warily.

“My editor is looking for someone who could write a book about the UK and Russia during the Cold War. He thinks this is prime time for that sort of publication, but he’s looking for a unique angle, and I told him of you. You’re still interested in writing a popular history book, right?”

I was stunned for a moment. “Th-thanks, Jack, that’s weirdly kind of you.”

“Why weird? I’m always kind to you. Will you come out and have a coffee with me to discuss it further?”

“Yes, all right.” I didn’t know if I wanted to write that book, but it was good to think of something other than Alex in the throes of passion with a wide array of beautiful people.

This morning I woke up and had these few seconds when I thought there was someone else in bed with me. My heart warmed with a familiar glow immediately, because for a moment those past weeks hadn’t happened and I would find Alex there, sleepy and horny, and all would be well. And all that had been said had not really been said at all.

Then it all came crashing down on me as I opened my eyes and they adjusted to the light and I realised I was still at Lucy’s, in her guest bedroom, and the body next to mine belonged to Squire, who had, against my explicit instructions, decided he preferred to sleep on my second pillow rather than on Lucy’s hardwood floors.

I met Jack in town, and he took me to some fashionable coffee place. We sat in the corner, which made it more intimate. There were cream leather armchairs and little round tables, too low to be useful. A sepia picture—of an Italian man with a horse and cart, delivering barrels to a street corner shop—hung on the wall over Jack’s head.

Jack looked good in his business-casual outfit. I wonder if he ever wears anything less elegant. I’ve never seen him without a suit. He smiled at me in his lazy way that I used to find so attractive.

But here’s the weird part: he could have been a woman for how attracted I was to him at that meeting.

We spoke of the book proposal for a bit, but in the end, he had little more to say than he already told me on the phone. We bounced ideas around about what angle would be interesting to that editor of his, and then we talked of the department, some new project he was involved in to do with the Second World War in China. Something about the Nanjing Massacre, maybe. I didn’t listen too attentively.

As Jack talked I observed him, and it was as though I saw him for the first time, stripped of the layer of sparkle that my horniness and attraction to him had bestowed for so many years. Suddenly I felt weirdly compassionate towards him.

It occurred to me that many of the men in our department have fucked-up love lives. There’s John Partridge, who had relationships with several of the postgraduate students; Will Sheaver, who had an extramarital affair with a woman from the Arabic Studies department, which had almost led to violence; Jack, who’s had more girlfriends and broken hearts in his wake than a film star. And there’s me, attaching myself to people with wild expectations beyond anything realistic, then heartbroken when the obviously impossible doesn’t happen.

What the hell was wrong with us? The women seemed to do better. Most of them are married, settled, and happy.

Randomly, and rather off-topic, I interrupted Jack mid-sentence. “Did you ever seriously think of getting married?”

“What’s your dowry situation?” he said with a smirk.

“Shut up. You weren’t really going to marry Sasha, were you?”

He sighed heavily, as though he were tired of the topic. “Must we go over that again?”

“No, we don’t need to. I was just curious. I’d understand it if you told me you were marrying Ava—I’d marry her myself if I were 1 per cent less gay—but Sasha? Seriously?”

“She was a sweet kid,” he said in that odious, condescending way he could adopt sometimes. He probably thought I was having a jealous fit.

“Did you get engaged to her because of me?”

His eyebrows rose. “That’s a strange question. Where did that come from?”

“I merely wonder whether your MO is to pursue those who are unavailable to you, and turn your back the moment they become available. That’s the hypothesis between my friends.”

“Your friends have hypotheses about me?” he said, now much amused. “How romantic.”

I laughed. “Stop being charming and tell me.”

“I don’t know, Leo,” he said. “I don’t pick my fancies apart and analyse them to death. Either you feel something or you don’t. Want to go back to mine?”

“No.”

His eyes laughed at me. He was tickled, I could tell. He probably thought this was a weird cat and mouse game.

“You broke up with the plumber, didn’t you?”

“Personal trainer. And that’s none of your business.”

He sighed heavily again. “Bloody hell, Taylor,” he said at last, “you really like to keep a fellow waiting. I think you make me out to be much more complicated than I am. If you came home with me today, you’d get lucky. See? It’s very simple, really.”

“If I agreed to go home with you today, I think you should take me to the hospital, because it would mean I’m having a brain haemorrhage.”

He laughed. “Tease. What’s happening with that—?” He was going to make up another profession for Alex, but the warning light in my eyes must have stopped him because his smile grew milder. “What’s happening with your boyfriend?”

“We quarrelled.”

“You’ve been walking around the department like you were about to set the whole place on fire. Doesn’t sound like an ordinary quarrel to me.”

“No, it wasn’t an ordinary quarrel,” I said. “Once, when I was still enamoured of you, I wondered if perhaps you decided to get engaged to Sasha instead of doing anything with me, because I was a man. I thought you were more delicate, less take-it-or-leave-it with the women in your life. And now I think I’ve got myself into the same sort of situation. I might be wrong… I really don’t know anymore. So that’s why I’m asking you. Why did you get engaged to Sasha and didn’t try anything with me? You must have known you could have.”

He smiled, waited a few seconds, as though weighing his answer, probably deciding whether to tease me or to respond seriously, but eventually he went down the kinder route. “I liked being adored by you. It was nice. You were this cute, bright kid, whose face lit up at the sight of me. Who wouldn’t want that? But relationships aren’t like that. If we had got together, it’d be sweet at first, and then the bubble would burst and you’d be another ex, trading cynical gossip about me with the rest of the department, who all think I’m a sexual pariah. I didn’t want that light to go away from your face. It was selfish, but I managed to keep it going for a while, and it was nice… for me. I thought that eventually you’d find someone else. Until Sasha came along, I didn’t know you were this serious about me. And then, when she did, I decided I liked you much better.”

I blinked at him. I didn’t expect that. “And then what?”

“And then the usual happened,” he said. “I’m not good with melodrama. In fact, I bloody hate it. And breaking up an engagement, let me tell you, involves a lot of it. I had to help her return to her country. I had to cancel a lot of things we booked, bought, arranged. And so, when it was quickly becoming very serious between you and me—and we hadn’t even slept together, for God’s sake!—I panicked. I didn’t want that. I thought we could just start casually, you know, have sex, see how it goes. I played my cards very badly, I know I did, but I didn’t mean anything by it. It doesn’t mean I didn’t want you.”

I stared at him, quite stunned.

Then he said, “Now can we go to mine?”

“Christ, no, we can’t! I was just beginning to like you. Stop perving out on me.”

“Beginning to like me!” he said, pretending to be wounded.

Nobody could wound that impregnable ego of his. Jack had no shame, knew no embarrassment. I think that’s what public school does to some people—this arrogance and self-importance, but also the ability to carry oneself, so certain of one’s own essential superiority. Now that I didn’t find him attractive, I found this more irritating than admirable. Because if I couldn’t wound him, how could I affect him in any other way? How could I make him feel really good if I couldn’t make him feel really bad? He’d fuck me—I had no doubt of that. Maybe he’d fatigue himself to show me a good time too, see me a few more times maybe.

I could imagine it already. He’d grow cold and distant, too busy to chat, too tired to hug. The fact that he used my infatuation, stupid though it was, for his own self-gratification, feeding it little morsels to keep it alive, for years—the magnitude of that was only just dawning on me.

“Yes,” I said. “I was beginning to like you. I’d like to be friends. Not because of the book deal—I’ve no mind for that right now. I’m heartbroken. I haven’t even had the energy to write an email, let alone a chapter of a book. You wouldn’t know what that’s like, would you?”

“I’ve been told it’s akin to being kicked in the groin,” he offered helpfully.

I smiled. “Yes, it is, but worse. Maybe you’re wise never letting yourself fall like that. I can’t say I recommend the things I’m experiencing now.”

“Bloody hell, Taylor,” he said, still amused. “You have it bad. I had no idea. I thought you were using the man to rub it in my face.”

“Yes, I carried on a five-month relationship just to spite you,” I said acidly. “You’ve got the highest opinion of yourself of anyone I know.”

He shrugged. “I was going to reward you for it.”

“Thank you,” I said dryly.

“I still can. You’re broken up, aren’t you? He couldn’t blame you for what you do right now.”

He waggled his eyebrows at me. Somehow he managed to pull this off, even though I’m sure it shouldn’t be possible for anyone, aside from maybe Pepé Le Pew.

“Even if I were tempted—which I’m not,” I said, “I wouldn’t go with you. If Alex had—” I stopped, because I thought of how Michael was swarming around Alex with all his muscles and macho-Jason-Statham air, and I had that clenching, nauseating feeling in my stomach again. “If it were the other way around, I shouldn’t like him to succumb.”

“Noble,” he said, sounding disappointed.

“No, it’s the golden rule,” I said. “Anyway, I must be going. Thank you for your offer—the kind one, not the sleazy one. I don’t know if you intend to withdraw it now that I said I wouldn’t sleep with you, but if you don’t, I think I probably should accept it. My sabbatical is coming up next term. Maybe we can talk about it again then.”

He smiled. “Okay.”

We shook hands, as though he hadn’t just been trying to get me to go home with him.

My head is spinning with thoughts. Most of them are about Alex. In fact, it borders on some sort of unhealthy fixation. Mostly I miss him, and then there is the jealousy and pain, but the rest is a question in my mind.

Jack doesn’t think his romantic situation is at all his fault—the way he acts is just the way the dice fall. And now I’m starting to wonder if I’m making his mistake—am I as deluded about the consequences of my own actions as he is? Is this whole thing, this break-up, my fault?

Was I asking too much of Alex? Was I projecting my insecurities onto a completely innocent man? The conversations we had seem out of proportion. I look back at them in this diary, and I can’t make out whether that’s what really happened, or whether I distorted it.

 

 

Tuesday, 14 September

 

IT’S INTRO week, which means first-year undergraduates are swarming the campus, being plied with leaflets to get plastered in dodgy clubs.

It’s not my favourite thing in the world. The kids are so young, and many of them won’t make it to a second year. Everywhere you go you hear anxious whispers. “What did you get for your A levels?” I had to introduce myself in two meetings, talk about the modules I run, encourage people to sign up for them. I can’t say I presented a very friendly demeanour, though I made an effort. But who are we kidding, anyway? It’s not as if any of them will remember me. They’re more interested in each other.

Looking at how young this new batch of undergrads is makes me think of myself at that age. I remember meeting Mark in the college, and not liking him very much because he was reserved and shy, and I thought he was stuck-up. We bonded eventually because he liked good music, and he was a great deal cleverer than most of the people you meet in the first year, even at Cambridge.

I remember the excitement of living away from home. I tried to remember whether I was excited about meeting men, but I couldn’t; somehow I don’t remember that being top of my list of priorities. I’d been sent off to uni with an earful of instructions from my dad and a list of names of people he knew from his own time in Cambridge, and I’d marched around the place with an air of purpose because of it.

What a tit I was back then.

Here’s something I do remember: when I did eventually go out to meet boys, I was ashamed of myself. I felt like a fat person facing a cheesecake. I knew I shouldn’t, but… one bite?

It was easier once I met Jamie, because he was more forceful, more outgoing, and I fell into pace with him.

Eventually I stopped fooling myself that I was doing it for Jamie. I was homosexual, but resolved that it was nobody else’s business. When anybody asked, I told them; though now that I think about it, the reason I let the news spread was so that I didn’t have to keep saying it. If everybody knew, then they couldn’t ask about it. They’d just have to deal with it away from me and come back to me when they were done.

That is certainly what I did to my parents. Alex seemed shocked when I told him about it. Was it wrong? Why confront someone with unpleasant news, with disappointment, when you don’t have to, right?

 

 

Thursday, 16 September

 

SARAH JUST told me off for not reading my emails. At this stage there are too many and I just can’t be bothered. I told her my computer was buggered. The tech guy never comes, anyway, so I’m safe for now.

Had to take Squire to the vet, which was a nuisance, since Lucy lives half an hour from where my vet is.

I really should go back to my flat. Maybe over the weekend.

On Tuesday, Lucy brought some bloke home, and I had to leave because I knew what they were going to do. Afterwards the place smelled of him and of sex.

I really miss my own place. I feel homeless at the moment, and I’m so afraid that when I get back, I’ll continue feeling like that.

 

 

Friday, 17 September

 

LENA CALLED. She sounded tired, so I didn’t bother her with any of my own crap. I asked her about Francis and Yi, and she told me a few gross stories about chapped nipples, and then we hung up because I had the feeling she was falling asleep even as she was doing her sisterly duty.

 

 

Saturday, 18 September

 

I PACKED my things and was going to go back to my flat, but then at the last minute, I took Squire to Amelia and Mark’s, hopped on the train, and went to see my parents. It was weird, but I felt an urge to see them again. Trouble is, if you don’t have a car, my parents’ place is a bitch to get to. Not even the taxis that line the kerb outside of the station know how to get to the little dirt lane that eventually leads to their house. I had to navigate for the taxi driver, while he muttered to himself about what this was doing to his tyres and suspension.

Eventually, when we got there, I found my parents weren’t in. Olga was, however, and she let me in and told me they would be back later in the day.

I gave them a ring to warn them I was there, and my mum gave me a load of superfluous detail about where they were and what might possibly detain them.

I took my things to my room, which was as clean and ready as a hotel room. It was a grey, cloudy day, but even so, the garden looked spectacular from my windows. Alex must have thought he was dating one of the royal princes. Funnily enough, I never even thought we were particularly rich, because my parents associated with other rich people, many of them much, much richer than them. And they hadn’t always been so well-off, anyway. Nor did they believe in spoiling Lena and me back then. I had to work for my pocket money and didn’t receive cars for birthday presents, like some people I knew. But I don’t think that would matter very much in the eyes of someone like Alex.

This place must have intimidated him. And then I’d made such a fuss about his job… that had been stupid of me. It was the wrong time to tackle the subject, if it needed to be tackled at all. I should have been more sensitive, should have just let him tell my parents his profession, and then let my parents look at each other in that way that said they were disappointed. And I should have let it pass. I should have handled the whole thing better.

I’m a moron, and, even worse, a snob.

Because there wasn’t anything else to do, I took a nap. Lately I hadn’t slept well at night and was constantly tired.

I liked falling asleep with Alex: there was something comforting and soothing about his presence. I try not to think about who’s on the receiving end of it now. A part of me knows it’s Michael, but I try to lie to myself.

When my parents returned, I must have looked a fright.

Mum put her hand to her lips and said, “Oh dear! What is the matter?”

“Leo?” My father came in after her. “What is it? You look, er, a trifle dishevelled. You’ve heard of hairbrushes, haven’t you?”

I glanced in the gold-framed mirror that hangs in the hallway to see dark circles under my eyes; an unshaven, patchy beard; and my hair sticking up at all ends. I flattened it with my palm.

“You should have your hair cut,” said Mum.

“Yes, thanks, I will.” I hugged her in greeting and received a pat on the shoulder from my dad.

Then Olga came in, bustling and wanting instructions, and Dad took me to see his computer to sort out the software updates that kept popping up and other minor issues. It was a family tradition. Of course, once I sat down to fix one problem, a whole list of them appeared out of nowhere, and by the time I was done syncing my mum’s Kindle with her laptop, and explained to my dad why the security software he chose to purchase is a complete rip-off, it was late, and smells of baked salmon and roasted almonds were wafting through the house.

At dinner I was grilled about my career. Somehow my mum had heard about the Australian project, and I was being pressed to try and chase up on it.

“Why didn’t you go?” Mum said, blinking at me. “It’s one thing not to pursue anything on your own accord, but to reject offers that fall into your lap seems… well, it seems reckless.”

My dad said, “You’re not afraid of success, are you, Leo? Your mother read this article the other day by a psychologist—”

“No,” I said, quickly. “I was in a relationship at the time, and I wanted to stay here and be with my boyfriend. It wasn’t the right time for me.”

My parents looked surprised and not particularly pleased.

“Couldn’t you go now, though?” asked Mum. “I mean, now that Alex is out of the picture.”

“He’s not out of the picture,” I said and then sighed, because the thought occurred to me that if this were a heterosexual relationship, they’d be less eager to brush it off as nothing. Then I caught myself thinking that and decided not to give in to my hang-ups. “I mean, I’m not happy that it ended, and I—I don’t know what I’ll do next. I need time to regroup.”

“That makes sense,” Dad said. “You’re still young, opportunities will come your way again. Maybe drop them an email to say you’re still thinking about it.”

“Yes,” I said gloomily.

Then the topic changed, mercifully, to that of Lena and the baby. I had to sit through a whole gallery of pictures of Francis rolling his eyes at the camera and drooling from the corner of his mouth, his tongue between his lips. In other words, he looked like any other baby. He was as cute as a button, and I love him to bits, but spare me having to look at him for an hour at different angles. My mum couldn’t get enough of it, however, and my dad seemed amused, so I sat there, letting Mum flick through her iPad and comment on the state of the child in each photograph.

Eventually I was given a glass of wine and we moved to the sitting room. Mum told me about the trip to Italy they were planning instead of their first planned trip to the South of France. They were going with Jude and Peter Richardson, friends of theirs I can’t stand, and I was given a detailed itinerary, and then a pity invitation to go with them. I refused, of course, since my depression did not need more food to bolster its strength. Peter is a closet case of the least pleasant kind, if you ask me, and his wife is a nervous, put-upon little housewife, which is also hard to bear.

Finally, when there was a lull in the conversation, I said, “When did Lena tell you I was gay?”

It sort of came out of me like a cough or a sneeze; I couldn’t hold it in. They both looked at me, startled, and I lowered my own gaze because I didn’t want to see their expressions as they relived that horrible time in their lives.

My mum said, “I think it was when she came back from visiting you. She was doing her internship in Paris at the time, wasn’t she, Harry?”

“Yes, that’s right,” my dad confirmed. “She had a short holiday, and she popped up to see you up in Cambridge. Then she came back to stay with us for a few days with that strange friend of hers—Sally? Shelley? The one who didn’t eat meat or vegetables, unless the meat was roadkill and the plants had died of natural causes, whatever that is. What was her name again?”

“Sandra,” I said. “What did she tell you?”

“She asked us if we knew you were gay,” said Mum, “and we said of course we knew. And then she said that you had a boyfriend in your college. Then we asked who it was, and she told us it was John Marwood’s son. Was it James, Harry? Or Thomas?”

“No, Thomas is married now,” said Dad. “It was the other one.”

“Yes,” said Mum. “That was a little bit of a surprise to us, because John Marwood is a horrible bigot. He was up at St John’s with your dad, you know, and your dad never liked him, but then we thought—” She laughed. “—we thought that it was a little funny that our son should have a… a romance with John Marwood’s son. Life is queer like that, sometimes. It’s very amusing, though, if you think about it. Of course, it wouldn’t be to you, because I don’t think you ever met John Marwood.”

I couldn’t really believe what I was hearing. They were actually laughing about it. “You knew?”

“Well, we didn’t know, precisely,” Mum said.

“You never told us,” Dad said.

Mum added, “But when Julian and Heather were here over New Year’s Eve with their daughter—you remember? You were sixteen at the time, and she was awfully pretty, like a young Brigitte Bardot. You didn’t even blush and you were ready enough to talk to her, and then got bored with her, and left to do your own things. Well… one can’t help but wonder.”

I didn’t even remember the pretty girl.

“And then you became awfully quiet and red-faced when we had that exchange kid here, the French one. What was his name?” Dad said.

“Christophe,” I said at once.

“Yes!” Dad said. “And he was such a dimwit, he could barely keep himself from walking into walls. It wasn’t like you to have the least patience with such people, and yet you seemed sad when he left.”

“So you knew.”

“We had our suspicions,” Mum said, “and then Lena confirmed it for us. Why do you ask?”

“I didn’t know you knew,” I said. “I thought you would be disappointed if you found out.”

“Well!” Dad looked a little offended. “What made you think we’re so out of touch with the world that we’d be disappointed about something you’ve no control over? You think we’re that backwards? Let me tell you, we’re much older than you, and we’ve seen a hell of a lot more. We’ve known gay people. My secretary back in Brussels, Linda something, she was gay.”

“Yes!” Mum said emphatically. “And what about your cousin George, Harry?”

“Oh yes, very, very gay, that one,” Dad said.

“Yes, I know you’ve met gay people,” I said patiently, “but that doesn’t mean you’d rejoice at hearing your son was one.”

“Well, no, we didn’t rejoice,” Mum said. “It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that one celebrates, although nowadays…. But at the time we just thought, ‘Well, that’s how it is.’ You were always so clever and resilient, we assumed you’d cope. I was a little concerned about your sexual health, because in our generation that was what everybody was talking about in relation to… well, you know. But whenever we tried to speak to you about it, you rebuffed us, so we spoke to Lena and she had the talk with you for us.”

Oh God, I remembered that.

“That was you?” I cried indignantly. “You gave this ammunition to my sister and then just told her to shoot at me at will? I had so many calls from her! She mocked me relentlessly about burst condoms!”

“Well, she may have done that,” Mum said. “Your sister is a little emotionally repressed, and she must make jokes when there is something important at stake. But we hoped it made you aware of the dangers of anal—”

“Okay, okay! I get it, thank you,” I said, putting my hand up. “I’d no idea I didn’t mask myself very well. I didn’t know I’d made such a fool out of myself with Christophe.”

Dad laughed. “When I was that age and a pretty girl was in the room, you couldn’t have tortured me into behaving reasonably. When I first met your mother, I’m pretty sure I recited the train timetable at her. I don’t know why. Don’t ask me. I can only be glad that I was as sensible as that!”

Mum laughed. “It’s true! And I stood there listening to him prattle on about the trains, wondering whether he was a bit daft!”

They both laughed; I laughed too, because this was so fantastical it was absurd.

I’m in my old room again, waiting for sleep with the certainty that it won’t come soon. I keep going back in my head, trying to remember things. I’m a forward-looking person; I rarely think of the past. And often, when you don’t think about something for long enough, you forget it altogether. I try to think of good memories, but now I can’t seem to come up with any. Any, that is, which are not connected to Alex. Those are still too raw.

I don’t want to think about Jack. And before Jack? What have I there to be proud of? A number of faceless hookups. I try to remember any one of them that was memorable, but it’s hard.

My head is aching. Why am I torturing myself, anyway? I should go to sleep.

 

 

Sunday, 19 September

 

COULDN’T FACE going back to my flat. I don’t know what I’m afraid of, but I’m certainly afraid of it. I worry that I’ll go to my place and find that it still smells of Alex. Or I’ll accidentally stumble upon a pair of his boxers or something, and that fragile balance I’ve struck, where I’m basically able to keep it together, will fall apart. I’ve so much to do now the term has begun; I’m teaching my first class of the year tomorrow.

I miss him. I miss him painfully. I miss the scent of him, and his smile, and that light in his eyes when he stumbled upon a horrible movie that he hadn’t seen yet but he’d heard about, something with a title like Pirate Cowboys or Dwarf Hunters. I miss him standing in my kitchen, laughing at me for having no useful cooking stuff in there. I miss how he smelled after a shower in the morning, freshly shaven, when he used to embrace me from behind as I was preparing my stuff for work, and when I complained, he’d squeeze me playfully.

I miss him so much.

Lucy says I should just call him, but I wouldn’t know what to say. And I would lose it if Michael picked up, I know I would. Why doesn’t he call me? Isn’t that a sign he’s trying to move on, or perhaps already has? The longer I think about it, the clearer it becomes: he’s better off without me.

It’s 2:00 a.m., and I’m trying to prepare my lecture tomorrow, but it’s just not coming along. I feel so weary of myself… I’m a whiny bastard.

Going to sleep.

 

 

Wednesday, 22 September

 

HAVING RUN out of sensible clothes for the rapidly worsening weather, and not wishing to look and smell like a tramp when I go to work, forced me to go home at last. Lucy came with me for moral support. As it turns out, and perhaps not to anybody’s surprise, I’m a giant baby who needs to grow some balls. Although Lucy assured me that I could make better use of ovaries.

“Balls are so fucking delicate,” she said. “Grow a pair of ovaries. We make humans with those, and you can hit them if you want, and there’s no way they’d get trapped in a zip.”

“You’re a poet,” I told her lovingly.

Still, my heart was in my throat when we reached my building. I expected to see Alex and Michael coming around the corner on their way out, or hear them through the door of his flat, having mad monkey sex. But I didn’t see him, didn’t hear him.

I took out my keys and opened my door. There was a rustling sound as I moved the door because papers littered the floor. At first I thought it was all post, and I wanted to groan at that, but Lucy picked one up and read it. A weird look came over her face, and then she handed it to me.

“What is it?” I asked, putting my bags down after I’d walked past the litter on the floor.

“Read it,” she said. When I took it, she bent down to pick up the rest and gather them in her hand.

The note was from Alex, and it was a trifle incoherent.

 

Remember when you sang “Debra” by Beck, and I told you that your falsetto was awful?

I lied. I liked it.

 

I looked at Lucy, who handed me a handful of other notes.

I didn’t understand, so Lucy led me to the sofa and forced me to sit down while she went around hunting for any papers that the door had pushed aside. Some of them were completely random; some dated and timed. There were maybe twenty. The earliest was dated from 2 September.

 

Michael deleted your number from my phone, and I don’t remember it by heart. I tried emailing you, but you’re not responding. You’re not at home, you’re not in your office. I don’t know where you are. You probably don’t even want to hear from me.

Just talk to me one more time. I’ll do better. You came to the coffee shop looking so pissed off, I was scared. I didn’t say what I wanted to say, and it all went pear-shaped. When you get this note, please just knock on my door. Or call me. A.

 

There was another one from the next day, I think, because it read:

 

I shouldn’t have mentioned Michael in my last note. It probably made you angry. I know you hate him, but he’s only trying to be a friend to me. Please don’t be like that. Please just come and talk to me. A.

 

There were a few random ones.

 

It rained all day today. Sitting at home without you is awful. Going out without you is also awful.

 

Or:

 

Remember that Chinese restaurant when we went for our first date? I went back there today. They had amazing Chinese dumplings. I wanted them again, but then when I got there, I saw the same old couple that stood in front of us in the queue, you know the one? You said the old lady thought you were my girlfriend, remember? She was there with her husband again. They sat at the same table as before. I think they must be regulars.

I want to be an old couple like that someday. Please call me. Are you still angry with me?

 

The one dated 9 September read:

 

I just had a horrible thought that you’re going out with that wanker from your department. I know I have no right to tell you who you should go out with, but I’m thinking about it and it’s killing me. Please, just at least tell me what’s going on. Put me out of my misery.

 

Then, from 12 September:

 

Look, I’ll be honest with you. I just don’t think I’m very good at anything else, job-wise. I know you like men who are successful, and I would like to be that for you, I really would, but I’m just not very clever, and I’m not very good at anything.

I’m really sorry. I didn’t do well at school, I quit the RAF, and this training gig is something I can do well now, and I like doing it. I got defensive when you were trying to hide it from your parents, and I shouldn’t have. I should have just told you the truth. The truth is that I can’t be successful at anything else, and this thing I’m doing now is not very glamorous.

I’m sorry, Leo. I really am. Please speak to me.

 

And from 15 September:

 

I know I should stop writing these. I have a feeling they’re still on your floor, because I can feel them when I push a new one under your door. Either you’re ignoring them or you’re not at home. If you’re ignoring them, then just text me or call me and tell me to stop and I will. I promise.

 

The last dated one was from Friday 17 September, and it said he was leaving to see his dad, he was driving himself crazy, Michael was driving him crazy, and he needed a break.

I looked up at Lucy, because as I was reading them I completely ignored her. She was standing there, one arm folded on her midriff, the other stretched out to me. In her hand was my mobile.

“If you don’t ring him, I’m phoning the police,” she said.

“What? Why?”

“Because I will have killed you,” she said.

I took the phone. I had every intention of phoning him anyway. The first note would have done it for me. Or, to paraphrase a famous movie, “he had me at ‘your falsetto doesn’t suck.’” My heart was hammering against my chest, but I found his contact details, number one in my favourites, with that picture I liked: the one I’d taken while he was off guard, laughing at something Mark was saying. I pressed Call and waited.

The ringtone went for a long time. I thought he wouldn’t pick up; it was too late. His last note didn’t sound as warm as the others.

Then I startled when I heard a breathless “Hello?”

“Er, yes, hi, Alex. This is Leo,” I said, a trifle hastily.

There was a pause and then, “Leo. You called. I mean, yes, of course, we’re on the phone now.”

He was still breathing hard and I wondered if he’d been jogging. “Er, yes,” I said. “I just got home. I haven’t been here for the past—God, I don’t know, few weeks. I hadn’t seen your notes and didn’t check my email. I had no idea—I was surprised to find them.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Was that “I’m sorry, ignore what I wrote?” or “I’m sorry you got swamped with all those love notes?”

I said, “No, it was… nice.”

“Yeah?”

Did I make it up or did his voice pick up? “Yes. I haven’t read them all yet. I thought I’d ring you instead. They’re in my hand, though. M-my other hand… the one that isn’t holding the phone.”

Lucy rolled her eyes.

I can’t say that I was far from reciting the train timetable here. I stood from the sofa, went to my bedroom, and closed the door behind me. “I was at Lucy’s,” I told him. “These past few weeks, I mean.”

“Oh,” he said again.

Another voice near him. A male voice. My spine stiffened.

“You’re not alone,” I said. “You’re busy. I should call later.”

“What? No!” he said quickly. “That’s just my brother. We were out running. Hang on a second.” Muffled voices, and then a scratchy sound before he came back on. “I’m here. I just sent him to run ahead. Sorry about that. I’m at home. At my dad’s.”

“I see. I hope he’s well?”

“Er, yes. I think so.”

“Look, I don’t know if this is a good time to say this, but I need to apologise to you.” I knew this was a terrible time to say it, but at that stage, I didn’t want to wait any longer. So I said, “I think you misunderstood me. Or rather, I didn’t express myself very well, and it all came out wrong. I don’t mind what you do for a living. I want you to be happy and content with what you do, and I’m not ashamed of it. I was being an arse, and there’s no excuse for it. My parents can be judgemental about my career, and I didn’t want them to have more reason to be disappointed with me, so I panicked and I said stupid things and—and I was being a complete and utter pillock, and I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, or make out that you somehow weren’t good enough for me. That is certainly not true. If anything, it’s the other way round. You’re way too good for me. In fact—” I took a deep breath and then plunged ahead, eyes closed. “—I thought that what you were saying when we were arguing about it was that you didn’t think I was important enough to you to discuss your career. I thought you weren’t taking me seriously.”

“Idiot,” said Alex affectionately.

I could tell he was smiling. “Yes, I know,” I said. “I was miserable this past month.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I want to see you.”

“My sister’s birthday is the day after tomorrow. I promised I’d be here. Can you wait until Friday? I’ll come down as quickly as I can then,” he said. “I really want to see you too.”

“Hm… I wish it could be earlier. I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but I really miss you.”

“Yes, I miss you too,” he said eagerly. “Why don’t you come up and see me?”

“Where are you at the moment?”

“Carlisle.”

“Oh. That’s… far.”

“Yeah, sorry. I’ll see you on Friday,” he said.

“No,” I said quickly. “It’s almost five, but I’m sure there’ll be trains running. I’ll probably get there late. Can you find a hotel room for me? I’d like to see you today.”

“What about your work?”

“I’ll call in sick.”

“Really?” He didn’t sound as enthused as I’d hoped he would.

“I don’t want to intrude,” I said. “If you prefer I can wait until Friday.”

“No! I do want you to come, I want to see you as soon as possible. I just worry—you’ve given up so much in your career for me, and I didn’t want to make you—”

“Please stop quoting me when I’m at my stupidest,” I said.

He laughed. “Okay. I meant I would like to see you, but I don’t want to cost you your job.”

“You won’t,” I said. “It’s the first week. Anybody can take over from me. Most lectures are pure housekeeping. Honestly, I want to come up and see you. I won’t if you think it will be awkward.”

“No, it’ll be great. I’ll see about the hotels, as you said.”

“Okay, thank you. I will text you when I’m on the train.”

“How long will you stay?” he asked. “Can you stay for my sister’s birthday?”

“Er… do you want me to?”

“Yes!” he said. “Will you come? You could meet my family.”

“Oh, won’t it be—as your friend, you mean?”

“Um, if you want to. I told them about us. They know who you are.”

“Oh,” I said, an odd flutter in my stomach. “You came out to your dad?”

“Yeah, I did. I was miserable, and I couldn’t hide it. I told them everything. Well, not everything. You know what I mean.”

I laughed. “Yes, okay. I would be honoured to meet your family.”

“Okay! Great! Oh God, I’m so glad. I love you, Leo.”

“I love you too. I’ll see you later today.”

“I can’t wait,” he said.

It was hard to hang up. But if I wanted to catch the train, I had to get going. When I emerged from the bedroom, I found Lucy sitting on my sofa with Squire. I told her what had happened.

She said, “I’ll take your dog to Amelia and Mark. You pack. Oh, and shower and shave. You don’t want him to change his mind when he sees you again, eh?”

“Very funny. Can you check trains to Carlisle before you go?”

She did.

It didn’t take me long to pack, because it never does, and I was in a hurry to get to Alex. Part of me still didn’t believe this was happening. I ended up calling Sarah from the train, asking her to find someone to fill in for me. She thought I was insane, but she agreed in the end. I had to tell her I was going to see my boyfriend’s family, which softened her to the task of giving the few lectures I had over the next two days to someone else. But what completely won her over was my promise that I’d tell her all about it when I got back.

Anyway, I’ve got a four-hour journey ahead of me, and I expect to be in Carlisle by ten o’clock. I texted Alex, and he said he’d pick me up from the station.

 

 

Friday, 24 September

 

WHEN I arrived in Carlisle, the station was flooded by bright lights and an army of people spilled out onto the platform. Heavy bags fell with a thud, and friends and family greeted one another with happy chatter and hugs.

I saw Alex immediately. He was standing under one of the lights, with hands in his pockets. I waved, and then he spotted me. And he smiled, a bright, happy smile as of old. He looked somewhat thinner, but not significantly so, and the expression on his face was all that I wanted to see.

Standing in front of him, without being able to drape myself over him like the girl two doors to the left of me was doing to her boyfriend, was hard. I would have kissed him ordinarily, but a group of football fans had exited the train at the same time as me, and they’d been imbibing freely throughout the journey. It was best not to provoke them unnecessarily and ruin our reunion.

I could see in Alex’s eyes that he thought the same.

He said, “My car’s parked outside.”

He took my bag off me. It wasn’t a big bag, but it was the only mark of affection, besides the smile, the look, and the warmth in his voice, that we were allowed just now, and so I let him.

“I was to say that you were welcome to stay at ours,” he said, “but I booked you a hotel room anyway, because… because I thought you’d want some privacy.”

“Yes, I would. Will you come and stay with me?”

“Okay.” His cheeks coloured, and I remembered that they used to do that a lot. He caught me staring, and smiled and rolled his eyes in embarrassment.

We were mostly quiet until we got into the car. Once inside, he leaned in and kissed me. It didn’t matter who saw, since we were in the car and would drive off in a moment, and screw them all, anyway.

He kissed me very tenderly, and then, his face still close, said, “Hi.”

“Hi.” I couldn’t repress a smile. It was reflected in his own.

The hotel was not far from the station. In fact, I could have walked the distance, probably. It was a red-brick Victorian building. Frankly, I didn’t care if he put me up in a hovel, so long as I could have four walls and Alex to myself, but this was nice, and I was a little surprised.

When I raised my eyebrows at him, he said, “You can afford it,” in a tone that suggested concession.

There was no bitterness in it that I could detect. When I looked admiringly at the entry hall, he seemed pleased. He picked up the booking, and the receptionist, a young Polish woman, gave us our key with that efficient, robotic air that made the fact that two men were booking into a king-sized bedroom much less awkward. In fact, she went about it as though the hotel catered for no other type of couple.

We went upstairs, Alex still carrying my bag.

Once in the room, I had time to glance quickly round and find it to be really decent. I was enveloped in Alex’s arms and we murmured sweet nothings, and then we were kissing, plucking at our clothes and assuring each other we’d never argue again, that this was so stupid, such a waste of time, that we hadn’t meant anything we’d said.

Naturally we’ll probably argue again. But it was good, soothing even, to know that Alex had hated this as much as I had.

Once we were naked in bed, once there was nothing between us and we were skin to skin, fevered flesh to fevered flesh, I was both relieved and excited. He was familiar and he was new. We had left the fairy-tale land of the honeymoon period, and we’d passed into new, exciting territory. I was okay, because I was there with him.

When Alex breathed his release into the base of my neck, I cradled his head, and then we lay there for a good long while, completely silent. I could feel his heartbeat, the sandpaper feel of his freshly shaved face on my chest, and the tickle of his breath on my flushed skin. We moulded together perfectly. Then his phone started ringing, and he groaned but eventually lifted off me. Naked in the faint light of the bathroom, he fished for his phone among the sea of clothes strewn all over the carpeted hotel floor. He found it just in time.

“Hey? … Hm? No, I’m staying. … Yeah, tomorrow. … I don’t know, tenish? … Shut up. … Okay, bye.” When he turned back to me, he said, “My brother.”

“Oh.” I remembered now that there was a whole family to confront. “How did he take it? All of them. Do they all know?”

“Hm? Yes, all the ones you’ll meet tomorrow, at least,” he said, crawling back into bed and finding something approximating his former position, then hugging me close. “They were fine. Surprised, shocked, I don’t know. Something of the sort. We’re a loud family. We talked loudly.”

“But they’re okay? You’re okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said tiredly and then yawned. “I wasn’t worried. If they say something stupid tomorrow, you have to forgive them. They’ll say twenty things and mean about half of them. Don’t worry about it.” Then he squeezed me a little. “Mmm, I missed you.”

And then he fell asleep. Ten had been a generous hour for Alex to suggest, because we weren’t out of bed until half past nine. We got up much earlier than that, but we’d not finished making up, and then the exhaustion of morning sex led to further naps, teasing wake-ups, shared showers, and breathless embraces. When we did get up, we found that we needed to shower again. Then we set about finding whose clothes were whose, and Alex had to dash out to buy a razor because I hadn’t thought to bring mine and he hadn’t packed because, as he said, “I didn’t know what would happen and my thoughts were everywhere.”

So we didn’t get to his father’s house for ten. We made it just before twelve. My own parents would have found that sort of tardiness rude, and I was therefore suitably stressed, adding to my existing stress of being introduced into a potentially hostile household. But Alex seemed relaxed, and assured me all would be well.

He parked his little grey Fiesta in front of a rather small red-brick terraced house. He had been calming me down all the way there, assuring me that no, they didn’t expect me to bring anything; and no, we don’t look as though we’ve rolled around the bed all morning; and yes, I can tell them we’ve been sightseeing if it makes me feel any better.

At last we were facing the door, its black, gloss paint chipping at the edges. Alex didn’t use the bell that proclaimed in proud capital letters his surname, LANDI. He knocked instead.

The dull thud of running footsteps, and then a young man opened. Much younger than Alex or me, he was tall and gawky with spiky dark hair and wearing a hoodie. He gaped, first at Alex, then at me. And then he looked like he was going to laugh.

“Ah! The boyfriend, eh? Ha-ha, come in. I’m Damian.” He stretched out his hand, laughing, clearly finding it hilarious and embarrassing all at once that his older brother had just brought back a boyfriend. But he wasn’t hostile at all.

I shook his hand, and Alex told him to stop being a baby.

Damian ran off, shouting loudly, “Eh! Sandro is here!”

I heard voices as Alex led me towards the end of a narrow corridor and into a sitting room, where a large number of people were gathered. They all rose at once and a loud hubbub began, where my hand was shaken, my face was laughed into, and I was introduced to too many people to remember.

The birthday girl had not yet arrived; she was due tomorrow, but Alex’s other brother, plus his wife and two children, were there, and his other sister, with her husband and three children. Damian’s girlfriend was expected.

In an armchair in the centre of the room sat Alex’s father, and he remained seated, apparently aware of his own importance. He waited for everybody else to sit and calm down, and then Alex led me to stand in front of him. His father was much shorter and less bulky than I imagined, especially in comparison to his sons, but he was tough-looking all the same. He was bald on the top of his head, and his eyes—though they were the same colour as Alex’s—were smaller and narrowed at me. Unlike that of the rest of his family, his accent was American.

“You’re the boyfriend, then?” He didn’t seem pleased. He looked at Alex and then at me, as though trying to see what incubus had charmed his son away from the ways of the normals. Stupidly, I reverted to my defences.

“How do you do,” I said, sounding to my own ears like my father at a reception.

“Sit down,” Mr Landi said. “Bring him a chair, eh? They tower over me—I can’t see anything. Damien, stop being a pest, where are your manners? Emilia, stop it! Eh? Tea? Ah, yes. Alex, go and make some tea. Want some tea, Leo?”

Another bustle began. Alex simply abandoned me as a chair was swiftly pushed under me and I was left one-to-one with the old man and the rest of the family ranged behind me, like a Greek chorus. It was like having an audience with the pope.

“Leo is a Latin name, did you know?” he said to me.

“Er, yes,” I said.

“Your parents liked Latin names?”

Strange question, but I answered. “Er, no. I think they were more interested in naming their child after Tolstoy and Da Vinci. My sister’s name is Lena.”

“After…?”

“My aunt,” I said stupidly.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Not a Latin name, that. Swedish?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is she gay too?” he asked.

I didn’t think he asked it maliciously. His tone was the same as when he was asking the other questions.

But Emilia, Alex’s older sister, cried out, “Dad! What kind of question is that? It’s not like if you have one gay child you immediately have only gay children.”

Alex’s dad frowned in confusion and said defensively, “It happens! Ask your uncle Emilio! Ah, there I have you. He had only gay children.”

Emilia shook her head at him, as though he were a hopeless case. “Gina is a fe-mi-nist!” she said, enunciating the last word slowly to him. “Doesn’t make her gay.”

“Have you seen her?” he demanded as though she was being unreasonable.

Damien came back in, finding the whole situation vastly amusing. “Who, Gina? Ew!”

“What ew? What ew!” demanded Emilia. “You think all lesbians look like the women on the posters in your room?”

“What posters?” demanded his father.

“Thanks, Em!” moaned Damien.

Oscar, Emilia’s husband, laughed. “You’re confusing the issue entirely. Alex, your family will drive your boyfriend into mental illness!”

“What?” Alex’s head popped in through the door. “What happened?” His eyes sought mine, but I was just sitting quietly in my chair. He smiled. “What have they been saying?”

“Gina, feminist or lesbian?” I said.

“Dad!” Alex said pleadingly.

“What? What me? What have I done all of a sudden? I sit here, having a civil conversation with Leonardo, and then I’m being told of your brother’s perversions and your cousin Gina’s problems. I’m the victim here!”

“His name is Leo, as I told you,” Alex said patiently. “And Gina is not gay… she’s only big and strong. And stop gossiping about Uncle Emilio. Damien, come and help me with the mugs.”

“See how they treat me?” his dad said to me when they left. “Where were we? Is your sister gay, or is she not?”

“Er, no,” I said. “She has a boyfriend and had a child recently. She lives in New York.”

That interested him. He grew up in New York and immediately wanted to know where my sister lived. When I gave their Park Avenue address, he made a long, impressed face.

“She must be very rich,” he said directly. “How much does she make?”

This made the entire Greek chorus behind me give a roar of disapproval, accusing him of asking vulgar questions. It was really strange, but amusing too, in a way. Eventually, Alex came in with the tea, which made everybody sit back down, and his older brother, Phillip (or Fillipo as his father called him) told on his father. Alex shook his head in amused disapproval and pulled up a chair to sit nearby, which made this seem less like a strange job interview.

“Did you know his family was rich?” his dad asked him.

Alex coloured a little, but said, “Yes.”

“You didn’t tell me? I didn’t know you were going to start dating rich people. Are you getting married?”

Again an uproar at the impertinence, and again his defensive “What? What?” And then, to me, he said, “If he had come with a girl he was serious with, I’d ask the same question. So I ask you, what are your intentions towards my boy here?”

I looked to Alex, who said, “Dad….”

Mr Landi shushed him. “Let him answer. This doesn’t concern you.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I braved, “I want to stay with your son. We haven’t discussed marriage, but maybe we can live together when he is ready to do that.”

“Hm,” said his father, contemplating this. “You want children?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Adoption? Surrogate? How many?”

Again an uproar from behind me, demanding he be reasonable. It was amazing how this family could hold several quarrels at once.

Emilia was asking her father whether he had asked such questions of Oscar when he’d first been introduced to him, and then she reacted with outrage when she was told that yes, he had in fact done so.

Damian was laughing into his sleeve. Oscar was trying to calm down his children, who came running up to their grandfather to defend him, and Phillip told his dad to be reasonable, while Phillip’s wife was siding with Emilia on the issue.

At last the matter was dropped, somehow. I’m not sure how.

“Do you believe in God, son?” Alex’s dad asked me finally.

Again the protests came, but it seemed that by raising his hand he could indicate to everyone that he would not be badgered into not asking the things he wanted to know. I didn’t know this was going to be an issue, and wished Alex had briefed me on it. Since I couldn’t ask for Alex’s assistance, I responded truthfully. “I do not.”

“Oh? Atheist, eh?” He narrowed his eyes at me.

“I suppose so. I don’t give the matter much thought.”

“You were brought up what, Anglican?”

“Yes.” I waited for some form of condemnation, but it didn’t come. He seemed to mull over the issue, and then shrugged.

“Your mother won’t like it,” he told Alex. And then to me, “She has converted to Catholicism, for me. I was never a big churchgoer, but she likes it. She will find it hard. All of it.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said.

Alex’s father shrugged in a way that said “what can you do?” and then let the matter drop.

Alex took me away shortly after that. We promised to return for dinner, and then I was out of the house and in Alex’s car, and it was quiet and peaceful. I took a deep breath.

“How did I do?” I asked.

Alex laughed. “You did fine, I told you you would. How was it for you?”

“Good. They seemed to be okay with it. Were they?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, starting the car.

We went into town and then back to the hotel to recuperate.

The dinner was easier now that I knew what to expect. After all the men moved the chairs and sofas to the side in the sitting room, they took a large table from some back room and spread it out. A few moments later the table was heaving with food, mostly pasta dishes. I was seated with Alex on my one side and Oscar on the other, and though I was stared at with curiosity, I didn’t feel like a freak or in any way excluded. Everybody made an effort to be friendly, and we had civil conversations about where in London we lived and what I did. This interested Mr Landi greatly. He seemed pleased to learn that I lectured in history, and he was impressed by my education and that I had authored a book. When I spoke of my family, his reaction was favourable. He told Alex that his mother would like that.

The whole was a convivial evening, hampered by the expected level of general awkwardness around having a new person at the table, but not to any marked degree. I suppose my being a man and Alex having just come out to these people added to their discomfort, but I gave them credit for trying to make the whole evening pass smoothly. In fact, it all went so much better than I expected. When we went back to the hotel afterwards, I was quite elated.

Later, when Alex was spooning me from behind, both of us flushed and breathing hard, I asked him if he had imagined it would go so well.

“No, I didn’t know precisely,” he said. “You never know how people will react to anything. But I hoped you would like them. Or at least not hate them at the very beginning. Later, when they have more time to get used to us, and to this, I think we will be fine.”

I snuggled deeper into his chest, and he sighed against my shoulder.

“Leo?” he said, after a while.

“Hm?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Hm?”

“About my job.”

“Oh God, please let us forget I ever said anything,” I moaned.

“No, listen. I was thinking… maybe if I save up, and when the economy improves a little, maybe I could start my own gym, you know?”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I was thinking about it and once I save some money to invest in it, I think it could be profitable. I could run classes, I could still train people, I could hire other trainers….”

“I think that sounds wonderful, Alex. You should definitely do that. We should both save up for it.”

“Yeah?”

“Certainly. Hey, you could run fat camps in the summer, what do you think?”

“Yeah, that sounds fun.”

“Don’t laugh. I think you could pull it off. I mean, you got me to work out, and that’s right next to sorcery.”

“I think that was just the power of your horniness, Leo. I can’t harness that from everyone who pays me money to get fit.”

“Oh, okay, if you say so,” I said, and he laughed against the back of my neck.

“You don’t think the idea is stupid?” he asked after a while.

“I think it’s brilliant.”

We fell asleep shortly after that.

The next morning, we prepared for Thea’s birthday. Alex had waited for her to be here to tell her his gay news, and so she arrived without having the slightest knowledge of it. That was probably why she brought her mother with her. The moment Alex saw the old woman come in, he changed. He stood apart from me, at a safe, straight-man distance, and I could see that everyone was looking at me, a little disconcerted. I surmised from this that Alex’s mother didn’t know and would be unlikely to welcome the news.

After that, everything went a little pear-shaped. Damien’s girlfriend, Tanya, arrived, and she was introduced to his mother, and hugged, and welcomed. Tanya was blonde and freckled, and so, perhaps because of that, Alex’s mum seemed to assume that I had come with the girl, as her brother/chaperone or something, so she only gave me a cursory glance.

The girl herself was a charming dimwit, very pretty but a trifle vacuous. Still, she was an ally to me because she knew as little of this family as I did—in fact, probably less. So the three of us—me, Tanya, and Damian, with his arm around her waist—stood slightly to the side as the various children and grandchildren took their turn greeting Mrs Landi.

Alex’s mother is a short, stout woman with short, permed hair, dyed blonde, and red nails. She laughed and talked as freely as the rest of the family, dispensing gifts for her grandchildren and talking of how her daughter’s twenty-fifth birthday was such a great thing.

I saw Alex take Thea aside. When they emerged some minutes later, she sought me out with her eyes, said something to Alex, and then came to meet me.

“Hi,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m Thea. You’re Leo, right?”

“Yes.”

We shook hands.

“Look, I’m sorry, I had no idea,” Thea said. “This is kind of awkward. Alex wanted to tell me to my face, and I didn’t know, and so I brought Mum.”

“So stupid,” said Damian with a roll of his eyes.

“No, that’s fine,” I said. “Why shouldn’t your mum be here?”

“Er,” Thea looked from side to side, “I don’t know. We’ll see. Hey, I think I met you once, didn’t I? I helped Alex move some of his stuff.”

“Yes, in the hallway,” I said. “I thought it was you who was moving across from me.”

She laughed. “Yeah, I bet you’re glad now that I didn’t, eh?”

I smiled and acknowledged that to be true. Meanwhile, I watched Alex waiting for his mother to turn to him. I wasn’t sure what to do next. To spare Alex the pain and awkwardness, I could have happily left and let him deal with this when he found the right time. But I could see from his expression that he was determined to get it out.

Seeing that, I said to Thea, “Er, I’m sorry if this is going to steal your show.”

Indeed, a few moments later, the whole party descended into a quarrel. Alex had taken his mother aside, he and I exchanged wary glances, and Damian consoled his sister that at least this birthday would be memorable. And I had no doubt it would be.

Soon, Mrs Landi stormed into the room like a bullet, straight at me, grabbed me by my shirt, and shouted, “You! Seduce my boy! Devil! How dare you!”

Her sons and ex-husband pulled her back, while Emilia and Thea tried to calm her. She was nearly hysterical, though, her eyes bulging, demanding if everybody knew of this and how long had it been going on.

Alex came to stand by me; he straightened my shirt and muttered apologies, even though I was sure he was more distressed than I was.

“He only just told us,” someone told her at last. “He came out to us a few days ago.”

“A few days!” she cried. “A few days? Then it’s nothing. Alex, come here. Get away from that man.”

Alex didn’t get away from me. He said, “Mum—”

But she didn’t let him finish. “I say get away from that man! He is dangerous!” And then to her ex-husband, “You’re allowing him into the house when there’s children here?”

“Mum,” said Alex, “please, calm down. We can talk about this.”

“There is nothing to talk about!” she yelled. “You’ve been seduced by this—this man here, and you don’t know what you’re doing, but it’s not too late. We can fix this. You will meet a nice girl, like Becky. Remember Becky? You were in love with Becky!”

“Mum, I’m with Leo now,” said Alex, sounding very unhappy.

“Nonsense! You’re ill! He is making you ill. You must get away from him, or else you will succumb to his seduction and—”

“Mum!” Alex said pleadingly, and the others were chiming in with their received knowledge about gay people, but nobody was listening to anybody, so I didn’t know what good that was doing.

Meanwhile, I stood there quietly watching this unfold, finding that I didn’t know what to do or say and would have gladly left. But I couldn’t leave Alex to this alone. So I just stood there, letting her insult me, knowing better than everybody else that she wouldn’t change her mind, at least not that day.

“Well, you can’t tell me you were a straight, good boy for thirty years and then all of a sudden you’ve changed your mind!” she snapped. “He seduced you, confused you, but it’s not too late!”

“I asked him to go out with me!” Alex said, losing his patience. “Okay? I asked him. He didn’t do anything!”

“You asked him! Then you’re more confused than I thought. Someone call Becky! Emilia, you know her number! Gio, stop pulling on my sleeve, I’m not hysterical. Alex, you will come to church with me tomorrow. We will sort this out. You need help!”

Alex tried to respond, but she wasn’t listening, because she’d turned her fire onto me.

“And you! How dare you turn my son into one of your kind? How dare you even try? I made a good boy. I brought him up right. He wasn’t gay until you made him, warped him, destroyed the good work I did. I hope you’re happy now. You’ll roast in hell for this, but you won’t take my son with you!”

“I didn’t make him gay,” I said quietly.

My finally opening my mouth made everybody else go still, and so I was heard. She glared at me, and I said into the sudden silence, “I don’t think you can make people gay. It doesn’t work that way. I’m really sorry if you’re upset, but this has nothing to do with Alex’s upbringing. And he is still a good person—the best person I know, in fact. And I’m not happy if this makes you that unhappy, because I know Alex will be upset about it.”

“Oh, you don’t have to answer to me!” she cried. “You will have to answer to him!”

Here she pointed upwards. I didn’t think bringing up my atheism would improve matters much, so I didn’t say anything, and she went on further.

“He will know what to do with you! And he’ll know this wasn’t Alex’s fault. Alex, you will come tomorrow with me, and we will help you, and fix this, and you will not see this man again, do you hear me? He is confusing you. I knew you should have married Becky when you had the chance.”

She continued in this way, and probably would have gone on for much longer, but when she began insinuating that I was a danger to the children again, my cheeks began to burn and I was about to say something when Oscar stepped between us. He didn’t say as much, but it became obvious that there would be no party until I left.

So I said it. I told Alex that I would go to the hotel and he could come when he was ready. He insisted on driving me, so I wished Thea a happy birthday and apologised for this, and then we went to the car and drove to the hotel. The drive was tense and silent. But once we arrived, he came up to the room with me, hugged me, and said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know she’d be there. I was going to break it to her slowly and let you meet her once she’s made peace with it. It’s all my fault. This was not the ideal way to tell her. I just didn’t want to spend the day with everybody pretending about who you were. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

I could see from his face that he was the one who was more distressed, so I assured him I was fine and told him to go and be with his family and not to worry about me. So he went.

It’s near midnight now, and he still isn’t back. I refrained from texting or ringing him. I don’t doubt that there are some serious conversations going on at the Landi home, and I don’t want to make things worse.

 

 

Sunday, 26 September

 

ALEX CAME back on Saturday with all his bags. He looked tired, and so I didn’t bother him with questions. In fact, I was pretty sure there would be no happy answers to anything I could ask, so I let the matter lie.

Since he was knackered, I drove us down. He brooded in the passenger seat. I stopped at a nice service station, where I bought him ice cream and coffee. Sure his thoughts were tangled in confusion and a whole variety of unpleasant emotions, I didn’t make him speak. Instead, I plied him with treats and held his hand when I didn’t need to change gear.

When we finally reached London, he came with me to my flat, collapsed onto my sofa, and then patted the free space next to him. So I sat there and let him embrace me.

“It’s good to be back,” he said.

“Yes. Can I do anything for you?”

He sighed. “No, I’ll be fine. It’s just tough to think that someone you love is so angry and disappointed with you.”

“I can imagine.”

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“She wants me to go to church with her and speak to her priest or pastor or whatever you call him.”

I laughed. “How did you grow up in a religious household without knowing what to call the man who preaches at you every Sunday?”

“We weren’t religious when I was growing up. My mum went to church, but she became more zealous with time.” He smiled against my hair. “Would you go with me?”

“To church?”

“Yeah.”

“Alex—”

“I don’t mean to worship or anything like that. Just to, you know, take a step towards my mum. Maybe if we go together, then she’ll be more reasonable to talk to, and when she knows you better, she will have to love you eventually.”

“I don’t think that’s empirically true, Alex,” I said. “But I will go with you, if you want me to.”

“Really?” He squeezed me to him. “You’re the best.”

“You’re worth it.” After a few moments of winding down from the long drive and the very eventful last couple of days, I added, “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything, love.”

“I was very proud of you, these past couple of days.”

“Oh?” He perked up.

“Yes. I didn’t have the guts to do what you did in my day, and I had to do it with fewer people, and without religion, culture, or anything else coming in the way of being understood. You were very brave. We’ll win your mum over, somehow. I’ll do my best, anyway. Even if I have to sit through a dozen sermons.”

“Thank you,” he said, relieved. “I don’t know why you put up with me and all this mess.”

“I love you,” I said. “And sometimes I think you’re the only thing that’s keeping me sane.”

“Oh,” he said. Then he smiled mischievously and said, “Then this is probably the wrong moment to tell you. I’m a figment of your imagination.”

This startled a laugh out of me. I had to kiss him. “Come here. I’m tired. Can we order in? I’ll have to ring Amelia about Squire.”

“Okay. Let’s go and pick him up first, and then we’ll order food.”

And that’s what we did.

I’m coming to the end of this notebook, which I never expected to fill this far. What a strange year it’s been. And it’s promising to get weirder. At least, as we were devouring a pizza for dinner this evening, Alex wanted to talk over perhaps moving in together. I would like that.

I’m not so crazy about the whole churchgoing thing, mainly because I’m not convinced it will soften his mother one bit, but I’ll go with him all the same. Maybe, when she gets used to me a little more, she’ll become less aggressive. I’d be satisfied if she could simply ignore me. But who knows? People do astonish you sometimes.

I texted Lucy to say that I’d brought Alex back home and all was well.

She responded with About fucking time!, which was as charming as usual from her.

Alex should be back any minute from his run. Then I promised to watch Troll 2 with him, another one of his so-bad-it’s-hilarious movies, which he’d watched five times.

Is it strange that I find this hobby of his so adorable? Lucy would tell me I’m being impossibly schmaltzy. Probably she’s right.

Amelia would tell me to stop making her vomit.

Ah! The sound of the door. He’s back.

 

 

Thursday, 30 September

 

POOR ALEX had to endure daily phone conversations with his mother all week. She won’t give up on him no matter how much he pleads. So today, seeing as it was our six-month anniversary, I thought I’d do something to make this ordeal worth it.

I knew he had an appointment at ten, but that gave me plenty of time. He’d been sleeping over at my place every night since our return. So this morning I woke him up with kisses along his neck, until he took a deep breath in and pulled me to him.

“What are you doing?” he slurred.

“Waking you up.” I lifted the cover from him and reached underneath. “And what do you know? You’re up.”

“You’ve got an unhealthy obsession.”

“Mm-hm,” I said, as I was tending to one nipple and then the other.

“Okay,” I said. “Your choice. BJ then breakfast, or breakfast then BJ.”

“Are you cooking?” he asked dubiously.

“Tsk. Make your choice, Landi.”

“Definitely, definitely BJ.”

I ignored what that said about my cooking. Let’s be honest, he had grounds for concern. Anyway, I preferred that order as well, so I dived under the covers. If I do say so myself, I put years of practice to bloody good use. When I came up again, his eyes were wide and he was breathing hard.

“How did you—?”

“Shh.” I kissed him. “Come along. We’ve little time, and I have much planned.”

“Planned?”

I grabbed his hand and led him out into the kitchen. I know I’m a terrible cook, so instead of whipping up a fry-up—or anything that would burn the flat down before I could make my point—I had gone to the bakery down the street and fetched freshly baked pastries, and then I just brewed coffee. It produced the desired effect by filling the room with a wonderful aroma. And I’d put flowers in a vase, which made the table look nice.

“Oh wow,” he said, looking at all this. “That’s new. Did you sleep with someone else or something?”

“Sit down,” I said. “Here.”

When he sat down at last, I gave him his anniversary present. I was nervous, because I’m the worst gift-giver in the world, as I think I have demonstrated, and this one could go either way. It was a card—a shop-bought one, because I’m not into arts and crafts, and I was trying to impress him, not alarm him. The card had two puppies on the front and read simply “Happy Anniversary.”

“Oh?” he said. “Shit. Did I forget an anniversary?”

“Yes, but never mind. Look inside.”

He opened the card and then had to unfold the piece of paper that I had glued to it. On it was my actual gift. I watched him read it, trying to contain my anxiousness. He was startled at first, but then he smiled, and then the smile widened, until he got to the end and his eyes lifted to meet mine.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Is it impossibly cheesy?” I asked, wincing.

“No. It’s very sweet. Come here.” He kissed my forehead. “Thank you.”

He took my hand then and walked me back to the bedroom.

“What about breakfast?” I asked.

“I’ve got to give you your anniversary present first,” he said.

He barely made it to his appointment, but by the time he was going out, we were both wreathed in smiles.

I haven’t told him the bigger news yet: I’ve taken on a second job. It’s not very glamorous—a position on the editorial board of the English Historical Review. Alex said he wanted to start his own gym, and by God I’m going to get him one. Plus, we’ll need the additional money if we think of moving.

Anyway, last page.

The contents of my card to Alex.

 

For Alex

 

If we’re nothing but stardust

Blown at random throughout time

My, am I glad, my love,

That your dust happened to fall in with mine

 

If we’re nothing but avatars

For ancient, alien minds

My, am I glad, my love,

That yours played the game with mine

 

If there is nothing out there

And we’re but a civilisation lost in the galaxy

My, am I glad, my love,

That in this vastness you’re with me

 

If the world were to end tomorrow

Neither of us would have made history

My, am I glad, my love,

That there was a you and me

 

If there is nothing more to life

Than sleeping and waking with you

My, am I glad, my darling love,

That that’s all I ever want to do

 

What are the chances?

What are the odds?

That I could have missed you

In a million different worlds.