The Beard (27 page)

This was Amy all over. Things were never straightforward. To some degree, everything was a drama and a major crisis. To the uninitiated observer, Amy was suffering a mental breakdown, a collapse of confidence or a soul-rending dilemma. To those who knew her, she could’ve just run out of milk or been told she had cancer.

With Amy, all reactions were theatrical and distressed. She could receive the wrong post in the morning and you’d be forgiven for thinking that she’d been cut from her parents’ will. The same was true of her hypochondria. The smallest cough and she was at death’s door. If someone she worked with had a cold, Amy would sidle up to their desk and ask if they’d been checked for a brain tumour. Why? Because she’d have read somewhere that colds were among the symptoms of a brain tumour. The fact that a runny nose was a mainstay of a cold was a meaningless detail. As such, everything was a crisis. Amy had been told to stop discussing health with work colleagues after being considered the primary reason why so many employees took time off work for stress. Accordingly, anyone who knew her ignored her when she behaved like that. One day, she’d genuinely be ill but no one would know. She could be convulsing on the floor and her nearest and dearest would step over her body, thinking that she’d just lost her phone.

Tom picked his paper up again and started reading as if Amy wasn’t there. He knew that she’d form a sentence at some stage.

“My cousin,” she offered finally as means of justification. Tom continued to read, not even acknowledging Amy’s spoken jigsaw. “Is coming to dinner,” she finished.

“Hmm?” Tom said, paying more attention to the newspaper. “So?”

“So!” Amy declared dramatically, walking over to Tom and pushing his paper down. “So!” she repeated. “He’s the son of my aunt.”

Tom looked back, perplexed. “I assumed he would be if he was your cousin.” Then, before attempting to reform his crumpled paper, he added, “That it?”

“No!” said Amy. Tom sighed and folded his arms. “He’s coming to dinner. Tonight. Here. In this house. In fact, he’s staying here tonight, along with my aunt. Aunty Edith.”

Tom frowned. Who was that? “Oh, the woman we met at the do?” he said finally, the penny dropping. “Oh, OK. So?” Amy remained static. Tom sighed and drew his disjointed paper up in front of his face. After a few seconds, the same paper was lowered. He stared back at Amy with a look of reflected horror. “Edith’s son, you say?” he said by means of clarification. “The gay one?” Amy nodded furiously. Tom sighed, “Oh my God!”

“Exactly,” said Amy, alarmed.

“Two gay men in the same house? Whatever next!” Tom tutted his disdain before raising and then immediately lowering his paper in protest. “What is it, Amy, do you think two gay men can’t sleep under the same roof without getting into each other’s pants? Is that it?”

Amy started to pace again. “No, of course not!” she replied indignantly. “It’s just that he has a super gaydar. I’ve been out with him in the past and he’s, like, ‘He is, she is, he is.’” Amy stopped and looked back at Tom. “He’s gonna pick you out like a moth at an ant farm.”

Having never been described as such before, Tom didn’t know how to react. “Well, if he says something indiscrete or intimates at something, I’ll just give you a kiss. I mean, it’s fairly easy to make people think that he’s wrong, isn’t it? Besides, he can’t always be right. Look at Ash – he thinks everyone’s gay.” Tom considered the implications of being outed at dinner. “And I really don’t think your mum and dad are going to listen to him, even if he does say something.”

“They told me he couldn’t make it. That he was away,” Amy said, still rigid with faux fear.

Tom raised his paper again and dismissed the concern. “Doesn’t bother me. Don’t know why it should you.”

Amy sighed. She knew she wanted to say something but she wasn’t sure if she should. Finally, she blurted it out: “Because he’s absolutely 100 per cent your type.”
The paper remained in place, but Amy knew that Tom had stopped reading.

Slowly, deliberately, cautiously, he lowered the paper again and peered out from the top. “And I’m only hearing about him now?” he said jokingly.

“He’s been living in Australia, but he broke up with his other half and is settling down back here.”

Tom was intrigued but not concerned. He’d met loads of men he liked, but had done nothing about it. Right now, he was more interested in marrying Amy’s parents’ lifestyle than any man, so he was sure he could keep his behaviour in check… and his pants on. “Amy,” he asked seriously. “How many times have I met men in my line of work that I’ve told you about? A million? And how many of them have I done anything with? None. I’ve perfected the art of doing nothing, of keeping myself well hidden from sight. Now, when I get back home, maybe I need to address that, but this is my final fling – my last weekend ra
ttling around in the closet. So don’t worry, I can hold my own… and no one else will be holding it this weekend, I promise.”

Amy didn’t look even remotely reassured.

“But he’s gorgeous,” she offered by means of justification.

Tom looked back at her, unimpressed. “I’m sure I’ll cope. So, who else will be joining us at dinner?”

Amy looked stumped for a second, as if unsure of what to say. “No one, just them.”

Tom smiled and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “OK,” before returning to his paper.

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,” cried Amy. “What if you do like him?”

Tom didn’t bother to look up and just said, “Seeing as you’re dumping me on Monday, it looks like I might be out of one relationship and into another!” The silence that greeted his reply was rebuke enough. Tom looked up again, growing irritated at what was becoming a pantomime. “Look, Amy, what’s the problem? You’ve a cousin staying. He’s gay, good-looking and stuff. So what? It may have escaped your attention but I happen to be considered good-looking, too.” Amy sat down in one of the window chairs and studied Tom. “I’ll take that lack of agreement as an insult, then, shall I?” he said tartly.

“I have to call Janet. She’s probably let my job go now,” Amy replied. Having exhausted the lack of drama in the current situation, she’d decided to move on to the next. Despite Amy taking a few weeks’ holiday just in case it didn’t work out, and Judith saying that her job was safe “come what may”, Tom braced himself for the soul searching that would inevitably follow.

Amy grabbed her mobile phone and typed a message to her boss
:
Turns out Sam was a total shit,
the message started.
Despite saying he’d wait for me, he lied! He said I had to go with him there and then or not at all. So said no. Did he love me? Will keep my two weeks off and be back after that. That OK? Thanks for the support. You were right, there was something dodgy about him. Lucky escape! Xx.

Amy pondered the message as Tom quietly leafed through his paper. “Come here,” she said all of a sudden. Tom barely looked up. “Come here,” she repeated. “Come quickly!”

Tom threw his paper down in a fit of temper and walked over to Amy, who’d stood up. “WHAT NOW?” he said angrily.

“Look! Look out of the window!” Amy said, pointing at the window in case Tom wasn’t sure what she meant.

As he did, he spotted a muscular blond man lifting bags from the boot of his sports car. From what Tom could see, he stood at around six foot tall and had effortlessly stylish hair. Slight stubble accentuated his jaw line and his muscular frame was noticeable from within the pristine white T-shirt that he wore with his jeans. As he approached the house to be greeted by Amy’s parents, he removed his sunglasses and glanced up at the window from where Amy and Tom were peering.

They jumped back, afraid of being caught spying. Tom looked at Amy. She scanned his face for any signs of emotion. He looked back at her, totally dumbstruck. “He’s bloody gorgeous,” he said to Amy, dewy-eyed. “Who on earth is he? He’s perfect!” 

Amy slumped into the chair. “Bollocks,” she said before kicking the waste-paper bin.

Tom approached the window again to sneak another peek, using the curtains as cover. Amy sighed as she watched
him behave like a naughty schoolboy desperate not to get caught looking into the gym changing rooms.

After a protracted sigh, he turned to Amy and added, “No, but seriously, Amy, who is he? He’s just… oh, my God, he’s gorgeous.”

Amy could tell by the look in Tom’s eyes that this wasn’t a joke. She sighed – her worst fears had been confirmed. “That’s my cousin,” she replied mournfully, as Tom scrunched a handful of curtain and gazed out adoringly. “Bollocks,” she repeated, as Tom sighed yet again, still staring at this figure outside.

Amy and her father wandered into their large, rectangular sitting room, where a wood fire roared its dominance as the room’s centrepiece. The space was delightfully decorated, the tradition and elegance of the building complemented by modern touches. Gentle two-seat sofas mixed with leather, high-back armchairs, side tables were adorned with decorative lamps and large, deep, rusty-red rugs covered the stone floor. The tones were muted and cosy without being dark
or claustrophobic. Traditional without being old. The room was inviting and perfect for a post-meal drink. Amy collapsed into her favourite fabric sofa and curled her feet up into her body.

“You alright, poppet?” her father asked while pouring them both a drink. Amy was distracted, staring off into the distance. Richard wandered over to her, brandishing a gin and tonic. Amy took the glass without looking up, as if on autopilot. “Amy?” her father repeated.

Amy was woken from her mental slumber and looked up. “What?” she said sharply. Her father raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Everything alright?” he asked again.

Amy managed an unconvincing smile. “Yes,” she assured her father. Her words were as weak as her grin.

“Everything OK between you and Tom,” came the next question.

Amy smiled. “Oh… yes,” she said meekly.

Richard smiled and looked fondly at his daughter. He took a sip of his drink. “Amy,” he said softly. “Do you remember when you were about eight and Mutley got completely covered in mud? You told us that he’d broken out of the kitchen door and rolled in that puddle at the bottom of the garden.” It seemed like an odd question so many years later. Amy nodded, not sure where the conversation was going. “Well, although your mother swallowed your line, I didn’t. I knew that you’d thrown his ball in there and he was only retrieving it.”

Amy felt retrospectively ashamed at having been caught out. It was a sensation that only a parent could induce in a child. She looked down and felt bad for lying about what had happened, especially as Mutley had got a severe telling off for his sins and a hosing down to boot. She’d felt bad about it then and she felt even worse now – especially as Mutley was no longer around to receive apologetic cuddles.

“Well, young lady,” her father began. It was a phrase that Amy’s father only used when she was in trouble, “I knew you were keeping a secret back then and I still do. You’re not as inscrutable as you like to think.”

Amy was sure that her father was being subtly specific, but she had no intention of telling him anything voluntarily. He was also the king of the double bluff, so she was cautious not to reveal anything too quickly. Could it be that he knew about the possible cancer after all? What if she blurted it out and he didn’t know? In all probability, it would be the relationship issue, but how could she be sure? She could land herself into trouble just trying to side-step it.

“Like I said,” he added, “I could tell back then when you were keeping a secret.” He looked at her directly as he said that. Amy froze. What did he know? What was he getting at?

“Oh?” she managed. Her hesitation suggested that her father was right. His paternal stare could dissolve any barrier that Amy erected.

Richard smiled at her and took another sip. He sat back in the chair and crossed his legs.
Given time, he knew he’d know.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Amy started, looking around the room nervously. “No one can know.”

Her father, unfazed that there was a revelation, nodded. “Especially Tom, eh?” he added.

Amy stared back at him. What did he think was happening? “Why do you say that?” she asked in an attempt to clarify his comments.

Clearing his throat, he swirled the remaining scotch around his glass. “You and Tom. You’re not a couple. Not really. Are you? Biblically?”

Amy hung her head in shame. “No,” she whispered.

“There’s another man, isn’t there?” he said knowingly.

Amy wondered whether he meant that she had another man or that Tom did. Either he was spot on or way off-base.

“Meaning?” asked Amy.

Her father laughed. “Meaning you’re in love with someone else. You and Tom – you’re like friends not lovers. I’m not blind.” Amy didn’t know what to say. Her father didn’t know the full picture, but he knew enough. “I know when you’re a happy little girl and I know when you’re pretending. Like the time you tried to convince us that you were happy with that bike you got for Christmas when you were five. You had the same face then as you do now.”

Amy had underestimated her father and his back catalogue of emotional references. It was slightly nonsensical of her to think that she could fool him. She stood up and walked over to where he was sitting. He shuffled across the sofa and she sat down next to him, putting her head on his shoulder.