Shameless (6 page)

Just then Rob cut in. Martin was pleased to see that he was still smiling, though not quite as broadly as before. “Listen, Martin,” Rob said. “You seem like a nice guy, but I think I should probably be going now. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again some time, when you’re feeling less . . . preoccupied.” He stood up and hesitated for a moment. “It really was nice meeting you,” he said finally. “And your friend of course.”

“Don’t go just yet,” Martin said, trying hard not to sound desperate and failing miserably. “I’ve been talking too much. I know. I’m sorry. I’m not normally like this, really. It must be the drink. I’ve hardly eaten anything all day, and champagne always goes straight to my head. It’s still early. We could go and get something to eat, some pasta or something. I know a few places near here, all fairly cheap. I’m sure we could find a table. We could order some food, and you could tell me about yourself.”

Rob frowned slightly and shook his head. “Maybe some other time,” he said, and flashed a half smile. “Bye.”

Martin watched him leave. Then he rushed into the toilet, tore off some toilet paper, and blew his nose until it bled.

Caroline was heading home in a taxi when her cell rang. It was Graham. “Hi, baby,” he said. “What’s up?”

Caroline felt her heart leap at the sound of his voice, but she was determined to play it cool. “I’m fine,” she said briskly. “Just on my way to a party as a matter of fact.”

“Really? Whose party?”

“Nobody you know. Just one of the girls from work.”

“That’s a pity. I was hoping I could see you tonight.”

Caroline, still giddy from all the champagne, felt her resolve melting. “Well, you’ve left it a bit late, Graham,” she said, secretly wishing she had hung on to that remaining half gram of coke. “People are expecting me.”

“Well, how about if we go together? You could drop by on your way and pick me up. Where is this party anyway?”

Caroline racked her brains for a suitable location. It had to be close enough to Graham’s flat in Belsize Park to make it seem as though she wouldn’t be putting herself out too much, but not so close as to arouse suspicion. “Finchley Road,” she said eventually. “Though to be honest, I’m not sure if it’ll be much good.”

“Well, why don’t you stop by anyway?” Graham said gently. “We can have a drink and then see how we feel. I’ve really missed you, y’know. And I know it was stupid of me storming off like that the other day. Say you’ll come over, and at least give me a chance to try and make it up to you.”

He could be very persuasive, there was no denying that. And it did sound as though he was genuinely sorry about the way he had acted before. Caroline knew that she was caving in, but she put up one last valiant struggle. “Okay,” she said. “But this doesn’t mean that I’ve forgiven you. You’ve still got a lot of making up to do.”

Twenty minutes later the taxi pulled up outside the three-story Edwardian house where Graham had lived for the past year, and where Caroline was forced to admit that she had spent some of the happiest times of her life. She paid the driver, checked her makeup, and walked up to the front door. She pressed the buzzer to the basement flat and waited for Graham to answer. There was a short pause before she was buzzed in. She walked down the hallway to Graham’s door and knocked gently. “Just a minute,” Graham’s voice shouted. Then the door swung open.

Caroline almost keeled over. Graham was standing in the doorway, completely naked except for the cowboy hat tilted on the back of his head, and the cigar dangling from his mouth. In one hand, he held a bottle of champagne. In the other, two glasses. He grinned. “Glad you could make it. I thought we could have our own party right here. What do you say? Wanna come?”

Caroline smiled and stepped inside.

Five

M
artin hated
Monday mornings at the best of times, but this particular Monday morning he was convinced that the whole world was conspiring against him. It was bad enough that his colleagues in the design department regarded him with the kind of wide-eyed curiosity normally reserved for visits to the reptile house at the London Zoo. There were times when he regretted his decision to be so open about his sexuality at work. Barely a day went by without someone asking him why gay men were so promiscuous, or whether he thought he was born gay, or what he made of the latest homosexual subplot used to liven up whichever soap opera happened to be losing ratings that month. The questions weren’t deliberately offensive. On the contrary, some were clearly intended as compliments. Michelle in frozen foods had got it into her head that gay men were all expert dancers with fabulous wardrobes and impeccable taste in home furnishings, which was one stereotype Martin was prepared to live with. Let’s face it—it would be better than living alone, and he could use a little help with the decorating. Still, the constant inquiries about his lifestyle did get on his nerves. And this was from people who worked and socialized in central London. God knows what it would have been like if he had stayed in Cardiff.

To make matters worse, it seemed that the past year had been declared mating season in the design studio, with the entire female workforce disappearing on maternity leave and returning with albums full of baby photos that their colleagues were expected to coo over. Today was the turn of Karen, whose ability to reproduce was being treated as some kind of minor miracle by the other girls, though Martin felt it barely made up for her complete lack of creativity in every other department. She was supposed to be a qualified graphic designer, not that you’d know it from the quality of work she produced. During her pregnancy, whenever Karen had complained about the extra weight she was carrying, he felt like telling her he knew exactly how she felt—he’d been carrying her for months. There were no prizes for guessing who was expected to pick up the shortfall when one of the team was incapacitated. After all, gay men were naturally creative, weren’t they?

“Come and see these photos, Martin,” someone shouted. He looked up from his desk. It was Melanie, one of the few people at work he actually liked. But today even she was beginning to grate on him.

“Just got to dash to the bathroom,” he called back, and slipped out the door before she could argue. He hurried toward the gents’, praying that he wouldn’t bump into one of the lads from the accounts department downstairs. The last thing he needed today was some number-crunching moron getting all jumpy at the urinal, paranoid that the queer was looking at his cock. It never ceased to amaze him, the way straight men assumed that because you were gay you were automatically guaranteed to find them sexually desirable, regardless of what they looked like. More often than not, it was the least attractive ones who made the greatest fuss. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking on their part. Or maybe they genuinely believed that gay men were so obsessed with sex that they would happily do it with any man who happened to be in the right place at the right time. Which was a ridiculous idea, obviously.

The toilets were empty. Relieved, he dashed into one of the stalls, locked the door, and sat on the toilet seat. What was wrong with him today? He was never normally this crabby, even on a Monday morning. Maybe it was lack of sleep. Saturday night he’d hardly slept at all. The cocaine had kept him awake for hours. When he did finally lose consciousness, he was tormented by nightmares in which his nose kept bleeding until the whole room was awash with blood and he watched helplessly as his furniture floated out of the door on a crimson tide. Last night he’d gone to bed early and lain awake until one, torturing himself with fantasies of what Christopher was up to. Come to think of it, it was hardly surprising if he felt out of sorts, considering everything that Christopher had put him through these past five days. He’d been stood up, lied to, cheated on, dumped in favor of someone who advertised his services in the pages of the gay press every week, and left the sole occupier of a flat he could ill afford. As breakups went, it was pretty spectacular.

And to top it all, there was his father’s imminent descent on London to contend with. The thought of his father hanging out with the gay folk at Gay Pride filled Martin with dread. Pride was supposed to be about having fun, watching crap pop acts, and feeling, well, proud. It wasn’t meant to be about chaperoning relatives. He had often wondered about the mums and dads who tagged along to Pride with their gay offspring, marching under a banner that read
PARENTS OF LESBIANS, GAYS, BISEXUALS AND TRANSGENDERED INDIVIDUALS
, or whatever the politically correct, all-inclusive term was these days. What exactly were they doing there? Were they simply showing their support, or was there some other hidden agenda? Were they overcompensating for the fact that, deep down, they would be far happier if their kids weren’t queer? And what did they really think of the drag queens in their eight-inch spike heels and the SM dykes marching along with their tits out? There were plenty of gay men out there who felt embarrassed by some of the people who turned out for Gay Pride, so God knows what some middle-aged mum from suburbia would make of it all. And as for his father, he might be an old hippie who supported every radical cause under the sun, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he would take Pride in his stride. No amount of liberal soul-searching would have prepared him for the sight of men in full leather, many of whom were certain to have their backsides exposed. How he would react to that was anyone’s guess. Knowing his father, he probably found leather deeply objectionable to begin with.

Martin slumped forward and cradled his head in his hands. This really was shaping up to be the worst week in his entire life. He’d already been shit on from a great height. The last thing he needed now was an opportunity for further humiliation. He needed time to get his life back in order, to take control of things the way Caroline had said. Changes would have to be made, that much was certain. He probably ought to think about joining a gym, although he had no idea how much it would cost, or whether he could really afford it. Maybe he should consider getting a roommate. That would go some way to alleviating his money worries. It would be company for him, too, someone to help fill the space vacated by Christopher. Yes, a roommate was definitely a good idea. He would make some phone calls and place an ad in one of the gay papers as soon as he returned to his desk. He would just wait here for a few more minutes, give everyone time to pore over Karen’s baby photos, and rest his eyes.

Half an hour later he was awoken by the sound of someone flushing the toilet next door. He glanced at his watch, leaped to his feet, and stumbled out of the stall. Standing at the washbasin was one of the lads from the accounts department. He caught Martin’s reflection in the mirror and sneered. “What have you been doing in there?” he said, eyeing Martin’s crotch and laughing. Martin looked down and felt the blood drain from his face. He could see straight away where all those red blood cells were headed. His erection was clearly visible through his trousers, straining against the fabric. It was a nightmare made flesh, a flashback to the school showers and the constant fear of being revealed as a “poof.” He stood rooted to the spot as his accuser walked away, laughing to himself. By lunchtime, the news would be all around the office.

Caroline had taken the day off work, claiming that she was suffering from “female problems.” This was the one excuse she knew her boss would never dare question. He was just relieved to get off the phone before she mentioned the dreaded word “period.”

She spent the morning puttering around Graham’s flat, watching daytime TV and flicking through a couple of magazines she found spread on the floor next to the sofa. She loved men’s magazines, especially the so-called “new lad” mags with their constant diet of busty babes, cool cars and articles on “How to Cheat on Your Girlfriend and Get Away with It.” It was a pity more women didn’t read them. They gave such an insight into the way men behaved. It didn’t take a degree in psychology to work out that all that macho bravado was simply a cover for a deep-seated insecurity about what it meant to be a man in these days of high unemployment and low sperm counts. Her own father had never been in any doubt about his role in life. He was the man, the breadwinner, the wage earner, the head of the family. He wouldn’t have been caught dead reading a magazine. Magazines were for women, and besides he was always too busy laying patios or building extensions to read up on “The 100 Best Mountain Bikes,” or “The 30 Essential Items Every Bachelor Needs.” Men today didn’t have that same sense of purpose, so they looked to men’s magazines to give them an idea of who they were. It was kind of sweet in a way. And the grooming pages were always a bit of a giggle. It was comforting to know that men were just as insecure, just as neurotic, just as obsessed about their appearance as women.

It had been a nice weekend, all things considered. The sex on Saturday night was better than ever, and when she woke up on Sunday morning, Graham was there with breakfast on a tray and a single red rose in last night’s champagne bottle. It was corny as hell of course, but after his stunt with the cowboy hat and the cigar she could hardly accuse him of lacking imagination. They spent most of the day cuddled up on the sofa, catching up on the week’s catalog of misery in
EastEnders
and sipping red wine through an old Bette Davis movie about a woman who goes on a cruise and discovers that she is beautiful and lovable after all. Graham had never seen
Now Voyager
and showed very little interest in Bette Davis’s transformation from ugly duckling to belle of the ball, all of which helped alleviate Caroline’s niggling doubts about her boyfriend’s sexual orientation. They ordered takeout from the local Chinese, and by the time it got dark they were back in bed, and Graham was burying his face between her legs, offering further evidence of his heterosexuality while she held on to his curly brown locks and moaned appreciatively. She slept better than she had slept in weeks.

She hadn’t showered today, preferring to savor the smell of his body on her skin as she sat wrapped in his bathrobe. She loved the smell of his sweat mingled with antiperspirant and was glad that he rarely wore aftershave, or anything that would overpower his natural odor. She could sit like this all day, reading his magazines, dressed in his bathrobe, smelling of him. But just because she had taken the day off from work, it didn’t mean she didn’t have things to do. Her own flat was a dump, and if she didn’t sort out the laundry, she’d be going to work tomorrow minus her panties. Besides, she didn’t want Graham to return home after work and find her still there, not so soon after her suggestion that they move in together and the row that had led to. He’d apologized for that little outburst, of course, and reassured her that cohabitation was something he was willing to consider, just not yet. Still, there was no point in tempting fate.

She showered quickly and phoned for a cab. She spent the next ten minutes looking for her panties and was just putting the final touches to her makeup when the phone rang. She heard the answering machine click on and Graham’s businesslike voice announce that he couldn’t come to the phone. The next voice she heard stopped her in her tracks. It was a male voice. A slightly nervous male voice. A slightly nervous, vaguely effeminate male voice. “Hi, Graham,” it said. “It’s me, Darren. We met on Friday at the group? I was just calling to say it was great to meet you. See you next time maybe, or perhaps we could get together for a drink or something if you’re not too busy. Anyway, call me if you fancy meeting up. You’ve got my number. Okay. Bye.”

A million thoughts raced through Caroline’s head. Who the hell was Darren? Why was he phoning her boyfriend and inviting him out for a drink? What was this group he was talking about? Is that where Graham was on Friday night? What kind of group was it exactly? And if there was nothing remotely funny going on, why did Graham clam up when she asked him about Friday night? She had to find the answers somehow, and since he obviously wasn’t willing to cooperate, the only other option was for her to do a bit of detective work. She knew that Graham kept a diary next to the phone, in which he kept a record of any pressing engagements—doctors’ appointments, birthdays, that sort of thing. She picked it up and began flicking through the pages. The sudden toot of a car horn told her that her taxi was waiting. Just a minute, she thought, turning the pages faster and faster until finally the diary fell open on last week. Written in the space for Friday were just four letters: C.L.A.G.

It was John who suggested that they go to an underwear party. Martin only agreed because he was desperate for an excuse to get out of the flat. He had spent the best part of the evening staring blankly at the television set, running over the day’s shameful events in his head. So far as he was aware, the news of his unruly erection hadn’t got back to the design department, but it was bad enough knowing that the lads in accounts were all having a good laugh at his expense. John wasn’t exactly brimming over with sympathy. “It sounds to me as if you’re in need of a good de-spunking,” he said before neatly segueing into the suggestion of an underwear night. “If you must go around popping out of your trousers, you’d be better off doing it somewhere where it will be appreciated. When was the last time you and Christopher had sex?”

“For Christ’s sake, John, he only walked out a few days ago!”

“I know that. What I asked was, when did you last have sex?”

Martin hesitated. “About two months ago,” he said glumly. “Maybe three, I can’t remember.”

“Exactly!” John said triumphantly. “I’ll meet you outside Brixton tube at 11:00
P.M.
And make sure you wear clean knickers.”

Martin had never been to an underwear night before, and right now he seriously doubted whether he would ever go to one again. It was all so embarrassing. The first shock came when he was forced to undress in full view of the cloakroom attendant, who could have passed for a serial killer if only he’d possessed a little more charm. The club’s policy of storing customers’ belongings in black binbags only served to reinforce the image. Watching as the bag stuffed with his clothes was tossed onto the pile of shiny black parcels behind the counter, Martin couldn’t help but wonder where the bodies were buried. Half an hour later, he had managed to banish such morbid thoughts from his mind, but even with two drinks inside him, he was finding it difficult to relax. Clinging to the bar, dressed in his pristine Calvin Klein briefs and Timberland boots, he didn’t feel sexy at all, just silly.