The Beard (6 page)

Carl, who was nowhere near as inscrutable as he thought, nodded. The information had been collected and would duly be conveyed. His eyes sparkled as if to suggest a gem stored safely. Was he convinced or did he see through this conversational ruse?

“Well, with a free bar, you’ll get a shag out of it, won’t you?” Carl said and immediately stared at Tom’s face, awaiting his reaction. Tom slouched back in his chair and snorted.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” he said and stared back at Carl. Momentarily, they were staring each other out.

Affording Tom the respect his answers dictated, Carl spun around. “It’ll be alright,” he said over his shoulder. “Whatever happens, it’ll be fine.”

And with that, another opportunity passed. But glimpses of a new era were surely now dawning.

Tom stared at the back of Carl’s head and wondered what he knew or what he’d meant. He sat gazing, lost in thought, his body in suspended animation.

“Oi,” said a voice. “Oi!” it came again.

Tom turned around to see Jake, a twenty-year old, cock-sure, sharp-suited boy racer – one of the less-likeable sales guys – standing above him. “Alright, bummer?” he said. “Dreaming about cock, are you?”

The room, which was already silent from people working diligently, seemed to quieten further still. Tom sensed a collective
intake of breath and its subsequent holding. While this was a typical retort in a macho environment, he was keenly aware that this level of derisory bonhomie had never been directed at him personally. Why?

“Nope,” said Tom staring at Jake. “But your girlfriend evidently was. I was just wondering whether to reply to her text asking for a decent shag. What do you think? Should I show her how a man successfully satisfies a woman?”

There were sniggers around the room as Jake was deftly put in his place. Any questions as to Tom’s capacity to pleasure a woman could wait. As before, they were quietly filed in the folder marked ‘Misc’, ready for another day.

As the cab splashed its way through puddle after puddle towards the Palace Hotel, Tom began to wonder whether there were any fjords in town that he wasn’t aware of.

The black cab, each window steamed up and criss-crossed with trickles of speeding rain, masked the miscellaneous blurs of luminescence from businesses plying their wares into the night. The garish yellow grab handles and bars dotted around the cab gave a surreal colour context to the rest of the dingy interior.

The stormy night ensured that conversation was limited. Any attempt at a meaningful chat was duly drowned out by the thud of rain on the cab roof. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the leather-bound cabin as the thunder melted into the rumble of the city beyond.

Tom fidgeted uneasily in his suit. He was confident enough in his capacity to be social, but less so in his role as Amy’s boyfriend – a role he’d only played in spirit. This was his grand debut and he knew that he was both on display and on trial. 

“What if they ask me about our sex life?” he asked nervously.

“WHAT?” shouted Amy, trying to be heard over the beating rain.

“WHAT IF THEY ASK ME ABOUT OUR SEX LIFE?” Tom shouted. The taxi driver looked at them both in his rear-view mirror and smiled. Amy blushed as it became aware that he’d heard the question.
She sent a fiery stare in Tom’s direction. Tom, having missed the taxi driver’s glance, failed to see what he’d done wrong. 

“Tell them what you like!” Amy replied testily.

Tom stopped trying to make meaningful patterns from the black polka-dot floor covering and looked straight at her. “So, you’d be happy if I told them that you love leather and have a thing for dildos?”

Amy checked
to see what the taxi driver was doing. Tom realised what was happening and nervously glanced at the grinning chauffeur. Amy turned away in embarrassment as the driver offered Tom a wink and a smile.

Having labelled one of his best friends a kinky sex diva, he felt compelled to keep his voice down, lest all cab drivers think she was a pervert. He looked away from the gaze of the driver, who’d disappeared into a very sordid fantasy, and back at Amy, who appeared desperate to get to their destination.

“So… what? I just tell them?” Tom said in a loud whisper.

Amy spun around as if irritated that this line of questioning was still forthcoming. “What?” she said rattily. Realising her temperament wasn’t the basis for a productive evening, she softened her tone. “No one is going to ask you questions like that, are they? Well, are they?”

Tom shrugged.

Amy sighed. “Look, like we discussed, we’ve been going out for a few months. We’re happy but we’re at that stage where we don’t know where we’re going. I haven’t made my mind up, you haven’t made your mind up, yadda yadda. That way, I can dump you if someone dishy comes along and it’ll still look plausible.”

Tom didn’t bother articulating his reply, but rather chose to stare down his nose at his alleged friend. Playing back what she’d just said in her head, Amy turned briefly to add, “You know what I mean. Stop being a prima donna.”

Tom pouted,
momentarily camp, before turning away. He glanced at the cab driver, who shot him a look and a flash of raised eyebrows as if to say, “Women!” For once, Tom felt sufficiently part of the male race to send a nod and a roll of the eyes back in reply.

“Palace Hotel,” said the cab driver, pulling up to and under the grand Victorian portico – a large, square structure that, in fine weather, was a piece of architectural wonder worth marvelling at, but in such rain was merely a fantastic way to stay dry. Amy bolted from the cab, driven by nerves, and made straight up the marble front steps, as the pristinely dressed doorman in a comically large top hat opened the door for her. Both Tom and the cab driver watched as she walked into the bowels of the hotel. Tom waited for her to vanish out of sight before sighing and reaching for his wallet to pay.

“They’re all the same,” the cab driver said drily. “Sometimes, I wonder why we bother.”

Tom handed over a note and added, “I’m wondering that myself right now, mate. Keep the change. Goodnight,” before proceeding after her through the gilded doors that lay at the entrance of this gauche festival of precious metals and stones.

Through the doors, Amy was waiting with a glass of champagne for Tom. “There you are,” she said, as if surprised that he’d had to pay the cab driver.

“Here I am,” he said. “Fresh from paying the fare!” He raised his eyebrows in mock horror as Amy sent him a withering glance and thrust the glass unceremoniously into his hand.

“OK,” she drilled, militaristically, “I’ll give you the heads up when I can. However, say very little – remember that we’re at my work function.” Then, remembering their journey, she added, “And keep your voice down.”

Tom ran his finger around his shirt collar and felt the sweat of nervous anticipation trickle down his back.

Amy was turning from side to side as she spoke, on the lookout for incoming threats and possibilities. “Try to make it look like you’re having fun,” she added. “Be relaxed and engaging – and, whatever you do, don’t tell any stories about my childhood.”

“Why not?” said Tom innocently.

“BECAUSE,” Amy thundered in an aggressive whisper, “that’ll suggest you know me as a friend rather than as someone who’s only known me a few months.” She sighed and rolled her eyes. Surely these were the basics?

Tom looked startled and wondered what else could go wrong. “OK,” he said merrily
, taking a sip of his champagne and smiling cheerily at her.

Amy looked at him suspiciously. “What are you doing?” she asked.

Tom took another sip of his champagne. “Looking like I’m enjoying myself!” He smiled sarcastically at her and looked around at the manicured opulence of the vast hotel lobby.

“One thing,” Tom said, looking casual. “If we’ve only been going out a few months, won’t we be a bit tactile? I’m not saying indiscreet but, surely, some kind of hand holding or something?”

This question was one that had never crossed Amy’s mind. As platonic friends, each attracted to the same sex, the thought of her indulging in any degree of physical intimacy with Tom was simply an anathema. The nearest she’d come was a drunken cuddle, a slap or the occasional punch. Holding hands seemed massively unnatural – incestuous almost.

She looked at him in horror. “We can’t do that!” she protested.

Tom stopped gazing at the room and spun around. “You’re the one who’s created the back story, not me. I’m just trying to make it work.”

Amy bristled at the rebuke. She wasn’t keen to think that the awkwardness was of her doing. “Thank you for the tips on getting into character, De Niro,” she offered tartly. This caused Tom to raise his eyebrows and momentarily put
one hand on his hip. Amy shook her head. “Do you want to be any more gay?”

Tom was about to offer a stinging riposte when they were both distracted.

“Amy!” came a voice from behind them. Startled, they turned to see where it had come from.

“Janet,” said Amy with a degree of reservation as much as explanation. “You look lovely!”

Janet, a middle-aged woman under several inches of make-up and beneath a spiral of lacquered brown hair, spun from side to side to promote her cascading purple gown. With a myriad of sparkling beads intrinsically laced across her dress, she looked like an explosion on an oyster bed. Her distinctive perfume arrived a few feet before she did, forcing a stifled cough. As Janet and Amy exchanged kisses, Janet began to give Tom the once-over. It struck Tom as peculiar that people who worked together day-in, day-out felt the need to embrace each other as if long-lost friends. When he went out with his work colleagues, they were lucky if anyone spoke, let alone touched.

Janet stood staring at Tom, as Amy was left paralysed. “I’m Tom,” he said, offering Janet his hand. She took it with grace and seemingly caressed it. Tom smiled politely, aware that she hadn’t released his hand as necessity, as much as convention, dictated. She continued to hold on for a disproportionate amount of time and gazed straight into Tom’s eyes, as if searching for buried treasure.

“Oh, Amy!” she said. “Why haven’t you brought this delicious morsel out to see us before?” She was seemingly struck by Tom’s clean-cut, Clark Kent look. His dark hair was neatly combed and his new black, bold glasses – which he only wore to seem intelligent – gave an aura of concealed masculinity. “You remind me of someone,” said Janet, smitten.

“People say I look like Clark Kent,” Tom replied courteously.

Janet looked at him with lascivious intent. “Yes, that’s it!” She turned to smile at Amy and then back again at Tom. “Superman,” she said deliberately.

Tom smiled nervously and found Amy grabbing his hand. He took the offer and nodded anxiously.

“Amy?” enquired another voice from behind a passing waiter. 

Amy turned to identify who was calling her name and quite clearly could be heard to say, “Oh, shit,” under her breath.

Tom sensed her freeze next to him as the woman advanced towards them with her arms extended out. All the while, he was aware of Janet’s steely gaze boring a hole into his side.

“Sweetie! Isn’t this wonderful?” said the woman who’d made landfall.

Amy was smiling but was evidently mortified to see this woman. Tom smiled at her and, in line with all expectations, offered his hand eagerly. In doing so, he hoped to fulfil his brief as attentive boyfriend and detract from Janet’s obvious attraction.

The advancing woman looked delighted to see Tom – perhaps a little too much. Tom wasn’t given to ego, but he wondered how much more attention would be lavished on him by middle-aged women during the night.

The woman looked like she was in her sixties. She was plumper than she should’ve been but was evidently from money, given the couture that she was sporting. Assuming this was someone to impress, Tom turned on the charm. “Hello, there. I’m Tom, Amy’s boyfriend. So delighted to meet you.”

The woman looked back at him, then at Amy, then again at Tom. “And I, Tom my dear, am exceptionally delighted to meet you!”

Tom smiled kindly back at the woman and looked over at Amy, whose face was a picture of abject fear. Tom felt her squeeze his hand tightly.

Without introducing herself in return, the woman kept gazing at Tom. He began to wonder if these women were simply amazed to see Amy with a man, as his co-workers might be to see him with a woman. “Well,” he said, desperate to make conversation out of nothing, “are you looking forward to the awards?”

The woman, who still remained anonymous, ignored the question and said, “If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you two been boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Amy was about to speak but instead just managed a distorted croak. Everyone looked at her, as she looked away to clear her throat. Before she could return any contribution to the conversation, Tom was in full character mode. “We’ve been going out for a few months now.” He turned to Amy, who remained silent. “It’s about three months, isn’t it, darling?” They stood there together, hands held, him in a tuxedo and her in a shimmering gown. He Clark Kent, her Lois Lane.