9

Our only proper row had to do with my flat. Oliver wanted me to give it up but I saw it as a symbol of my independence: something I could proudly point to as my own, wholly and utterly my own, not a by-product of Oliver’s generosity or of anybody else’s (other than for the small bequest made to me by my father): a refuge I could always retire to when I felt the need to reassert my own personality or—more accurately, perhaps—rediscover it.

It was a Friday morning and, unusually, neither of us was working. We’d been lounging around with the papers when—apparently apropos of nothing—Oliver had brought up the subject. “But supposing we were to separate?” I asked.

“We won’t.”

“Supposing?”

“Good God! I thought you said you loved me.”

“Well?”

And I had said it, too: on the evening we had seen ‘Nabucco’. The opera was interminable. My only interest had been in the splendour of the opera-house, the novelty of the opening scenes, and the rousing quality of ‘The Slaves’ Chorus’—otherwise, I had felt bored. And what had made it especially difficult, afterwards, to keep up the pretence of having had a good time was my discovery that actually Oliver was none too keen on this particular work and had only booked for it because there was nothing else available. But he didn’t admit this until considerably later, when we were sitting over dinner in a small out-of-the-way restaurant; and, as with our very first encounter, I knew he would think less of me if I retracted … or, anyway, never again be sure he could trust my initially expressed verdict. Besides, on this occasion, it would seriously have diminished the gratification my lie had given him—entirely defeating, of course, much of the original motivation of that lie. (I had also not wanted him to think I could appreciate only American musicals.)

“So this evening,” I had teased him, “was all in the nature of a noble sacrifice?”

“Not at all. It gives me enormous satisfaction to introduce you to new pleasures.”

“Brings a touch of freshness into an otherwise totally sated existence?”

“Precisely.”

He smiled at me and I didn’t know what it was: it could have been his habitual niceness or the attractiveness of his smile (which invariably made him look so handsome), it could have been the ease and contentment I always experienced in his company. But I said something which I’d had no intention of saying and which had somehow been surprised out of me by the sheer enjoyment of the moment. I said: “I love you, Oliver.” And the instant I’d done so I fervently wished I hadn’t.

He stared at me for several seconds. Then:

“My God,” he exclaimed softly. “Am I imagining things?”

Well, what could you reply to that? I felt trapped—committed—helpless. The look in his eyes was nearly enough to light the restaurant. He said, “Naturally you’re aware of how I feel about you—and have done almost from that very first weekend? But somehow I couldn’t believe…”

“Why not?” After all, I had to say something.

But he didn’t tell me. “No. It doesn’t matter. I think I must be the happiest man on earth at this moment.”

He said now, in the sitting room at the Embankment:

“Well, if you love me there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be happy together for the rest of our lives. Other people seem to manage it.”

I should have liked to ask how many of those were unmarried.

I should have liked to remind him that he was twenty years older than me.

I should have liked to say that I didn’t believe I was homosexual. Nor regard our liaison as anything but the very pleasantest of prologues to my one day getting married and having children. You had to be realistic. In the past I had often wondered about the type of girl whom I would fall in love with. It seemed to me odd that at the moment I should know absolutely nothing about her: what she was doing, whether she was presently in London—even in England—whether she felt contented with her situation or alone and faced with overriding problems. I didn’t like to think of her as unhappy. Later she’d be the most important person in my life.

But, clearly, I couldn’t say any of these things. I shrugged.

“And what does that mean?” he asked.

I gave no answer.

“Look,” he said. “I didn’t think the young were supposed to care that much about security. But I make you a promise. Here and now. If ever we do split up I’ll see to it that you’re not left homeless.”

“Oh, that’s nice. You think, then, if we do split up, I’ll be in the right frame of mind to accept your charity? You know, other people besides you—though I realize this may come as something of a shock, I’m glad you’re sitting down!—other people besides you may sometimes have their pride.”

“Ah, really? There—I must admit—you do surprise me.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?”

“That means, exactly…” He gazed at me for a moment but then his expression softened. “Do you realize you’ve just stolen one of my lines?”

He must have seen my perplexity. He enlightened me.

“I said ‘And what does that mean?’ about half a minute before you did.”

“Oh, is that so? I’m afraid I don’t keep check. And I suppose you feel you own the copyright?”

Then his expression softened still more: he actually smiled. “Regarding copyright? Did you ever hear what Groucho Marx said to the Warner Brothers?”

I had thought about Groucho Marx while I’d been talking to his mother (though how often, in the normal way, did I think about Groucho Marx?) and the fact that he should now reappear like this was perhaps a feeble attempt on the part of providence to remind me of life’s basic absurdity.

But I was hardly in the proper mood to speculate on life’s basic absurdity, or on the meaning of trifling coincidence—and, after all, although it didn’t feel like it, that had been several weeks before.

“Oliver, I do wish you wouldn’t try to change the subject! I want to know—”

“Apparently Warner Brothers were threatening to go to law over ‘A Night in Casablanca’, claiming that it parodied their own title. Would you believe it? They actually hoped to copyright a place-name!”

“Oliver, can’t you please, please, stick to the point?”

“Well, there was a meeting between Groucho and Jack Warner. It seems that Groucho chewed on his cigar a bit. ‘And talking of copyright, Jack, isn’t there one word you yourselves make pretty free with?’

“‘Yeah? What’s that?’

“‘Moreover, we’ve consulted lawyers—Chico, Harpo, Zeppo and I—and been advised we have grounds for a counterclaim. Pretty foolproof grounds, too!’

“‘Jeepers! What fucking word you talking about?’

“Groucho looked at him pityingly for a while. ‘And you don’t even know! In law that wouldn’t be any excuse, but personally I feel inclined to take pity on you. I’d better write it down so you can practise not saying it.’”

I supposed that, like Oliver’s mother, I couldn’t bear to have anything left unfinished—whether arguments or anecdotes. “So what was the fucking word?” Apart from the adjective, I felt I was humouring a child, although my tone remained sullen.

Oliver laughed—and practically with a child’s own glee in the presentation of a punch line.

“Brothers!” he said.

I hadn’t meant to register amusement. But the story was new to me and his impersonations were good. Possibly more than that, his persistence was virtually irresistible. I had to smile.

“I do wish you wouldn’t try to change the subject,” I repeated, if only for the look of it—the sullenness was largely gone.

Oliver shook his head, sadly. “That’s bad,” he said. “Quoting me seemed to offer up hope—an indication of good taste and humility and a readiness to learn. Quoting yourself can only be seen as a sign of falling standards.”

I sighed. I wasn’t proof against such determination.

“Oliver, why must you be so bloody nice all the time? Queers have a reputation for being bitchy. Can’t you occasionally live up to it?”

“I always think I do rather well on that particular front.” He added abruptly: “You don’t really see it as charity, do you?”

“Huh! Charity, indeed! I work damn hard for every penny. I warn you, I soon mean to put in for a rise.”

He laughed.

“In any case,” I said, “I was using the future tense. Pity, if your own hold on grammar is so slippery you failed to notice!”

“I love you,” he said.

“And I love you too.” Unsurprisingly, it grew easier every time.

“I’m sorry you think I squash your personality.”

“Is that what I said?”

“Something of the sort.”

“Well, you must know by now I usually speak first, think afterwards—no one’s supposed to examine the things I come out with. Also, you must know by now, I have a totally unsquashable personality.”

He appeared satisfied.

“And listen,” I added. “About the flat. I’ll think about it. I really will. It’s just that … well, you know how much it means to me…”

“Yes,” he said. “Apparently more than I do.”

It was incredible! Incomprehensible! (Nearly so, at any rate.) All that patient cajolery, all that striving after harmony—and then what? “I love you” followed at once by such a neurotic need for permanence that peacemaker again became warmonger. Part of me could sympathize; part of me felt riled.

“Oh, for crying out loud! Is it the expense or something? Have you suddenly gone mean? Shall I see to the rent out of my own money?”

“What money? That charity you spoke of?”

“I told you, I don’t see it as charity. I reckon I earn every penny!”

“So you’re saying, then, it’s really such hard work to come to bed with me each night?”

“Oh, Oliver! For fuck’s sake!”

“Well?”

“I was referring to the modelling. You know damned well I was. Is it charity or isn’t it charity? Do please make up your mind, and then I’ll try to act accordingly!”

Unable to remain seated any longer I began restlessly to pace.

“And anyhow … those contacts which you mentioned? I think you spoke about an escort agency. Why can’t I pay the rent out of the salary I’d get working for that?”

He, too, got up. I thought he was about to leave the room. “If you really believe I’d allow you any more to take on that kind of a job—”

“My, my! Possessive, aren’t we?”

“Don’t be so camp! It doesn’t suit you!”

We stood there glaring at one another.

It felt like at least a minute. Probably it wasn’t fifteen seconds.

Oliver was standing near the mantelpiece. Suddenly he turned and gave a vicious kick to one of the burning logs.

And then it was just as if—through his well-polished toecap—all the tension drained out of him and went flying up the chimney in a shower of sparks.

“My dear sweet idiot, I hope you know it’s not a question of the money.”

“What’s more,” I said, “I don’t like James!”

To say the least, this statement was a non sequitur. Such a non sequitur, indeed, that after an instant of utter stupefaction we started to laugh. We grew practically hysterical. We laughed so much it hurt and by the time we collapsed together on the sofa we were gasping for breath.

It was impossible to argue after that.