The Beard (35 page)

Amy looked at Tom and smiled. It was a weak, apologetic smile. He hugged her close and kissed her head. Both mothers saw this and looked at one another.

Richard gestured to the room to cease the clapping. He strode to the front of the stage and, with uncharacteristic showmanship, bellowed, “Good evening!” The room, in high and fine spirits, replied. A panto of sorts was underway. “Well,” he said, “the fugitives have arrived.” There was an awkward silence as everyone looked at Tom and Amy. “Thankfully, as innocents, they’re hungry and ready to party. Are they welcome?”

It was a curious strategy, but one which eliminated any doubt as to the providence of the evening’s end. There was a second of hesitation. Amy looked at the bride, who wasn’t happy at having been upstaged twice in one day. A roar swept through the room as applause again broke out. The relief was palpable. Those on the stage exhaled with unbridled release. Richard again gestured for silence.

“Today hasn’t been the day we’d originally hoped for. However, in some respects, it’s been a triumph. The buffet is about to be served and we’re all ready for a party. But, you know, I have to share something with you…”

“Uh-oh,” said Adam as he looked hastily at Judith.

“The press, who did their best to get into the grounds earlier and who sent a helicopter up for us, they weren’t here for my daughter,” continued Richard. “Oh no. That’s just what we told people. They’d got wind up in London that the world’s most beautiful bride was getting married today. Oh yes.” Again, applause broke out, matched by the bride’s smile. “I had them on the phone all morning – can I confirm this? Can I confirm that? In the end, I said, ‘Yes, it’s true. She’s the most beautiful bride you’ve ever seen, but you’ll have to wait for her photos to see her.’ So, if you don’t see yourself in tomorrow’s papers, blame me! I’m the one who kept them away. But you know, Claire, I did it for one reason.” At this stage, everyone was intrigued to know where Richard was going with this. “So that you could sell them to
Hello!
magazine for a million! You look amazing, darling – have a great night. Come on, everyone, let’s celebrate. DJ – music!”

Applause and cheers broke out instantly and rapturously. Richard glanced over to Amy and winked. He’d saved the evening and her reputation. Ash remained on stage, taking various bows as the rest filed off.

“Let me introduce you to a few people,” Richard said to Michael, “then let’s hit the bar.”

Amy looked at Tom. “I need to go and make peace with the bride. If I can.” Tom nodded as she took a deep breath and wandered off, smiling and taking hugs as she walked through the room. Judith and Sheila seemed deep in conversation and Ash tottered over.

“Evening!” he said to Tom playfully.

“Where you sleeping tonight?” Tom asked, curious to understand how someone could invite themselves to a wedding and then stay.

“With Amy,” he replied cheekily. “I’m guessing there’ll be a cold spot where once her fake boyfriend lay.” Tom’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Ash. “With you, then!” Ash added. “You wouldn’t throw me out into the cold, would you?” Tom raised his eyebrows before looking away in disgust. His eyes landed on Adam, who was surrounded by a variety of cousins. “He likes you, you know,” said Ash quietly. Tom digested the words and then looked back at Ash, frowning a response, as if denying any understanding of what his friend meant. “Oh, don’t play dumb with me,” said Ash. “You know full well who I mean and what I mean.” They both glanced back over at Adam holding court with his family.

Tom felt crudely exposed and vulnerable again, as if everyone in the room could see into his heart and read his intentions and motives. “You think?” he
asked, so hesitantly and unsure that he had to clear his throat several times before the words came out.

“Oh yes,” said Ash. “He knows it, you know it, blah blah blah.” Ash had the capacity to translate momentous events into soundbites of text speak. This didn’t trivialise the issues, rather summed them up succinctly – or just made them brutally simple. Ash was surprised by Tom’s reaction. Normally, he’d already be mid-flow, batting away any such suggestions or inclinations, happy to hide away. It was a novel development for Tom to field a suggestion of interest. “Actually,” continued Ash, “he did ask if you were, erm, well, not really into girls.”

Tom looked up, horrified. “What? When did he say that? Does anyone else know?”

Ash smiled and helped himself to tricolour crudités that passed by on a silver
tray. “No, just us,” he replied as he devoured the treat. With his mouth still full, he added, “I’ve already told him that you’re interested in him.”

Tom reacted as if he’d stuck his wet fingers into an electrical socket. “YOU DID WHAT?” he shouted in a whisper. “What if he tells someone?”

Ash smiled. “He said he wouldn’t tell a soul. Not a soul. I made him promise. I explained the situation – but he’d already guessed. He’s no one’s fool.”

Tom fell silent. Was this merely the first domino in the stack or was Adam’s gaydar as good as Amy had suggested
? “But he likes me?” he asked, his interest piqued.

Ash nodded and sipped a glass of something pink and fizzy. “Yes. He asked me to find out if you were interested in him. Are you?”

Tom was flustered. He glanced around nervously. The bass from the disco was thumping loudly across the room, pulsating and thundering as it went. Tom felt sure that his heart was louder still and kept swallowing anxiously. He blinked repeatedly, the likely resulting scenarios playing out in his mind. What would happen if he said yes? Nothing would happen if he said no.

He tried to remind himself that he’d vowed to make the step, to move forward. If he said yes and nothing came of it, would anything be at risk? Amy’s family would find out, yes, but they may find out at some point anyway. If things went well, he’d have to tell his family. He always said he’d tell his family if he fell in love. His secret device for dealing with that was making sure that he never fell in love.

Now, however, something was different. Was it him or was it the man in front of him? Was it possible, even in the furthest, most improbable excesses of his imagination, for him to be happy? Could it be that everyone around him could be at peace with his sexuality if he was? He was fairly sure that they wouldn’t be or couldn’t be. He was also increasingly aware that he couldn’t live his life for others. Ash’s recent brush with death had taught him a life lesson not to forget. The reality beyond that, however, was ending his mother’s hopes of grandchildren. He could deal with work – they’d adapt or he’d quit – but family was a far bigger matter than that. The strings and restrictions on family bonds were of considerable more collateral. He wasn’t just answering with his heart (or his groin), he was answering on behalf of his family’s future happiness. In some respects, to say yes to his possible happiness felt like he was closing the door on theirs. He used to kid himself that as long as the door remained ajar, there was always the slimmest chance that he’d never have to disappoint them. It was a fool’s charter because anyone could tell him that the door was closed and had been for some time. The thought that his quest for love would extinguish his family’s happiness was a fairly potent roadblock. The prospect of what MIGHT be, versus the certainty of what WOULD be, was an undeniably stacked choice… and not in his favour. Follow his heart and hope for happiness, or do it anyway and ensure suffering for his family. Not only that, but would his happiness offset the pain? Was he just being the epitome of selfishness against parents who’d given everything to ensure that he’d have the best life possible? Was this his thanks to them?

A million considerations ricocheted around his head. The music, his heart, the chatter, the noise was overwhelming. Yet for some reason, deep down, he felt almost at peace. There comes a point in any race when the running stops. Surely, he’d spent long enough running away from the truth, from himself. If now wasn’t the time to stop running, when would it ever come? How many more opportunities would he pass up? His pragmatic personality tried reason to outmanoeuvre fear. It can be managed. With secrecy and tact, no one need ever know. This could be viewed as an experiment. A controlled experiment. Something that, with thought and planning, could be a productive investigation into his true feelings. In so
doing, if he had a good time, who’d be harmed?

“What do you think I should say?” Tom enquired, as if in the playground asking his friend’s advice.

“Doesn’t really matter, actually – I already told him you do,” said Ash, grabbing yet another tower of food from a passing tray.

Tom heard the words and felt as if he’d been hollowed out and slowly filled with ice. He stood, motionless and freezing cold, the chill of a reality surrounding him. Fleetingly, he was now being driven by events rather than driving them. The sense of powerlessness was horrific and intoxicating. He was only surrendering to it because he wanted to. On some level, in some way, he knew that.

“I just wanted to make sure you did feel the same way,” said Ash. “Which you do, so that’s good.”

“Evening,” said Adam, approaching both of them. Tom jolted, as if a secret conversation had just been gatecrashed. How much had he heard? Tom felt like a child with a secret, not sure how much the other party knew
or how to act to cover his tracks.

“Scuse me,” said Ash. “Off to the little girls’ room!” Before Tom could stop him from going, he’d set off, turning only briefly to offer his friend a wink.

“Evening!” said Tom, trying to be as relaxed as possible. “You having a good time?”

Given the fact that they’d both been in the marquee a matter of minutes, and taking into consideration the day that they’d both had, it was a fairly asinine question.

“Erm, yeah, sure,” said Adam, unsure how to respond. “You?”

Tom smiled, realising the dumbness of the question. He looked down at the four feet on the floor. They were clearly four feet belonging to men. In the past few months, he’d often looked down when with Amy. The two sets of feet had been normal – sensible black dinner shoes and some heeled variety of Amy’s. Looking down and seeing two pairs of men’s shoes was a sledgehammer reminder of what was happening. The pe
ople attached to those shoes weren’t discussing business, they were potentially discussing life together. Emotions, sex, shopping, car buying, toast, shower curtains… life. It seemed odd, perverse even, that he could be having such a conversation with another pair of shoes the same as his. What did that mean? His inert sexual identity, his incapacity to accept who he was, came down to this – a matter of shoes. He’d consolidated and condensed his true feelings to such a degree that an expansive exploration of emotion was impossible. Instead, the shoes opposite him took on an iconoclastic importance. These simple shoes represented everything he was. Rather than dealing with the man opposite, the complexity and depth of feeling that would immediately initiate, he coped with the reality of his feeling by relating to Adam as a pair of shoes. Even he knew the absurdity of it, but also the relevance and resonance of what those shoes epitomised. The mere fact he was even considering moving his shoes closer to the other pair was a brave and bold step forward.

Adam could see Tom’s hesitation and fear. He smiled, remembering how he’d felt at the same point in his life years ago.

“It does get easier, you know,” he whispered. Tom looked up and, for the first time in his life, he looked into another man’s eyes and saw more than his own reflection. He stared so deeply and intently that he momentarily shuffled his feet, for fear of falling in. The sea of emotion that was there for him to see, to witness, to taste, was simply over-powering. In one moment, surrounded by the audible crescendo of a family wedding, he saw peace. He felt calm. He saw a happiness that he’d only dared imagine before. He knew then that an escape from repression and risk was a reality.

He blinked, flushed and looked away. “Do you fancy a drink?” he said, going into auto-pilot crisis-avoidance mode.

“Sure,” said Adam. “There are some in my room.”

And with that, Tom looked up in immobilising fear, excitement and expectation. Could he?

Tom heard the small, but appreciable, drop in volume as the door to the marquee closed behind them both. The air was decidedly colder now as slight plumes of breath could be seen. Coming from the artificial warmth within, it was a shock. Given what was happening, it seemed appropriate.

A series of paths led from the marquee to the gardens, driveway and house. The house lay ahead in relative darkness but for a light outside the rear entrance. Tom smiled when he saw it. The pair walked in silence up the path towards the house.

If anyone had happened upon them, there was plausibility to their movements. They may have been on a quest to find peace away from the hubbub. Perhaps they were retrieving some more alcohol or seeking out an alternative brand to those on offer. For Tom, it was essential that there was a rational explanation he could turn to, should anyone question their actions.

The throb of light and sound behind him felt overpowering. It was as if the marquee was following them up the path. Tom wanted to turn and look. He felt as if a hundred eyes were following their journey and asking, “Where are they going?” He was sure that they were being watched. Someone, somewhere must be charting their progress. It was inevitable. Try as he might, he could never achieve anything clandestine. Every attempt ended in a fairly swift revelation, so the shortcut to this was to not try.