Tom Houghton (31 page)

I caught my reflection in Pa's grimy old mirror and approached it excitedly. I was transformed but looking now, closely, I could see that something was missing. Hepburn's dark pencil-line brows, her luscious ruby lips. As I moved, there was the sensation I was flying, the large cape flapping in my wake. It was like being naked, carefree, but only
I
could see this, and the rest of the world would be fooled by the costume. It needed something more, I needed the finishing touches to my face. I ran about the backyard on my way to the house, spinning around to make the cape flare out, carefully brushed my body against the citrus trees to feel their limbs poking through the silvery skin.

I walked into my mother's room. Her eyes were closed and, whether awake or asleep, I knew that body was just a lump, no spirit. She'd barely know who I was. I opened the top drawer of her bureau. I peered at my reflection, so utterly unlike me, and set to work with the unfolded photocopy next to me for guidance. I painted thick sleek lines onto my eyebrows, arching them ever so slightly, and splashed glossy burgundy over my lips.

I took a step back. Yes, now it was complete. Now the previously hidden luminosity of Tom Houghton could truly begin to shine. It was as though I'd been brought back from the dead, or better yet, was alive for the first time. Everything had been leading to this moment, of that I was sure. The teasing, the fights, the movie collections, every single thing made perfect sense and each facet fell into place perfectly.

E
ddie was awake earlier than usual, forced onto an earlier train by his mother's insistence that he attend a family gathering of sorts. It was still dark outside, and he must have assumed I'd still be asleep, as he emerged from the bathroom completely naked.

‘You tease,' I said and rather than having the desired effect, this made him jump back as though he'd trodden on an explosive and before I knew it he was inside the bathroom behind the closed door before emerging again wrapped in an almost full-body towel.

‘Sorry.' He fumbled around. ‘I didn't mean to wake you.' And we both pretended that I had not seen him naked.

But the sight did tease me, and continued to do so for days to come. I'd grown dismissive of my own nakedness, was in some ways relieved not to have been forced to endure exposing myself so completely to him. Seeing Eddie bare like that, however, kept creeping into my mind at odd moments. With it, memories of Mal returned, and my wayward feelings towards him during the seminal moments of realising who, or what, I was. I was fast drawing the conclusion that between Mal and Eddie there had been many (I refuse to say how many) men and yet not a single one other than those two bookends had me wanting a man more. Mal was pure fantasy, a projection of my confusion, and I thought back to that time with general distaste, astounded he continued to look after me for years with all the adolescent hell I put him through. But to think of him as anything other than father was a tad sickening. Eddie, conversely, I wanted just as much, only this time things were equal and it was not escapism I was seeking, but requitement.

•  •  •

Seven days later and we were ending the run on a high. That one all-important critic's review had encouraged a flurry of visits from noteworthy movers and shakers in the British film and theatre industries. Grace had been offered her own show, one she would be asked to co-write and produce – an enormous coup. Charlie's run as international dreamboat showed no signs of easing and even whatshername was getting asked for autographs after each show. My Sydney agent was contacted, who referred me to someone at a sister company in London and I found myself with a UK agent. I was, unfortunately, offered ludicrously paid but depressingly predictable roles of stepsister ugliness that would have undoubtedly sentenced me to a never-ending term of pantomime purgatory. After all, positive reviews in a tiny playhouse in Edinburgh didn't exactly make me leading man material. But then a prominent indie film producer came to our final performance with her casting director and they wanted me to have lunch the following week in London. I suspected it would amount to nothing, but the fact that they came back to say hello and congratulate me after the show was certainly a career high.

Given my ever-intensifying feelings towards Eddie, I thought it a sensible idea to invite him to the wrap party. He came reluctantly, having prepared himself for another intimate evening just like all the rest, but he could see how important a part of my work this was, like the occasional client meal was for his.

There is an energy to a closing night and the obligatory party that follows, which gives most people in the theatre enough adrenaline to ride through until their next job.
Who's Afraid
was widely regarded as extremely successful, one of the highlights of the festival's program, and no one found the courage to point out the irony that we were, in actual fact, celebrating an audience of one hundred and fifty people per night; it was hardly Broadway. But the vibe spread quickly and I would miss Grace, even Charlie, and I suppose I simply was not ready to return to Australia and whatever lay in wait for me there. I suppose, as well, I was dreading saying goodbye to Eddie; though we certainly had London to look forward to, this was to be the end of our Edinburgh nights and it felt like my one and only teenage love (as pathetic as that sounds on paper) was coming to a premature end.

Tom Houghton knows only one way to cope with these mixed emotions and it's found in any bottle marked with a percentage sign, the higher the better. Everyone was lovely to Eddie, as lovely they would ever be to somebody
in sales
. He was clearly out of place but he made an effort to talk to as many people as he could and was never sullen that I was rarely by his side. I, on the other hand, was not dealing well with the collision of both worlds, so my elbow was in full swing.

Some time after the end of the party, I found myself at a table across from Victor and Grace. Eddie was sitting next to me. I kept putting my hand on his crotch and he kept removing it, without agitation, but forcefully nonetheless. I kept whispering to him, saying it was time, all the while engaging Grace and Victor in conversation.

‘Can you believe this poor upper-crust loser from London travelled all the way to Edinburgh to see me every Saturday night?' I asked. Stunned faces met my words, which I interpreted as pity for poor Eddie. ‘Like a dutiful little school boy he came to see me after every show. And to think that actually encouraged me to develop
feelings
for him. How could I have been so stupid?'

Eddie was making self-deprecating remarks aimed at deflection, attempting to protect me from digging deeper, but I was too far gone to note the strategy.

‘All that travelling and he wouldn't even put out, can you believe?' I continued my lecture. ‘Walked around the room naked and I thought to myself, “Good god, look how bony he is, how sickly thin.” Honestly, Grace, tell me. Can you tell me
what was I thinking wasting my time like that
?'

My hand was still fumbling at the bulge in his pants beneath the table, and Eddie withdrew his cock from the material and let me stroke it. Victor, quick off the mark, took Grace by the hand and led her to the bar.

‘Let's go and fuck in the toilet . . .' I said to Eddie. ‘All this fucking teasing when I knew you wanted it all the time.'

‘No, this is what
you
want Tom. It has nothing to do with what I want.'

‘I'll tell you what I want right now, Edward. A fucking drink. A quick fuck. Sex on the beach. Dirty cock-sucking fucking cowboy. Be a pet and go fetch?'

Eddie looked at me and I saw the hurt in his eyes, so I averted my gaze. He got up from the table after adjusting himself and walked to join the others at the bar. They engaged in conversation and, while their backs were turned, I headed straight for the door.

T
he telephone was ringing. Its shrill bell surprised me, felt out of place for the current circumstances. I considered ignoring it, but its persistence was grating. Somehow I knew it was scripted for me to answer.

‘Hello,' I heard myself say.

‘Tom?'

‘Yes, this is he.'

‘Tom? It's Spencer.'

‘Hello, former friend.'

‘You need to come over, Tom. To my house, can you come here straightaway?'

‘I beg your –'

‘Tom, please!' Spencer pleaded. ‘I need you here right now!'

I replaced the telephone in the receiver. I pulled the cape tight around my shoulders, wrapping myself in it. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, took deep cleansing breaths. Then I sprang into life. It was almost beyond my control, a power overcoming me, a feeling I struggled to harness, coming from somewhere other than within. I leapt from place to place, suddenly as light as air. I bounded towards the front door and in moments I was out into the world, the afternoon sun blinding, the heat stifling, but I was shielded from it all. Barefoot, I ran faster than I ever had, faster than I thought I was capable of. Barely stopping to look at roads as I crossed, ignoring the sharp stabs of the gravel under my bare feet. Perspiration gathered at my brow and slid down my face. I saw no one along the way – no neighbours in their yards, no one peering out from behind net curtains, no cars, no drivers. Seven Hills was a vacant set, the façade of houses two-dimensional, the plants and flowers unreal. My body moved lithely, fluidly, as unencumbered as in dreams.

There was no need for me to catch my breath, so I bounded up the front steps to bash on Spencer's door. A hastily written note was stuck to it:
Tom – in garage
. I walked back down the stairs, more rational of movement now, and made my way to the side gate. My heart was pounding, but with excitement or fear I couldn't tell. I saw the garage roller door was closed as I walked up the incline of the long driveway. I went around the side of the fibro building, knocked on the small wooden door there.

‘Tom?'

I entered. The first thing that struck me was the darkness. Then, the sparseness of the garage, and how it echoed with emptiness. There was not a thing in it. Down near the garage door I made out the silhouettes of three people, boys. Even with the lack of light I could make out who they were. I felt to the side of me for a light switch, moved my hand along the wall until I grasped it. I flicked the switch but nothing happened. Found another, tried again. Three long fluorescent globes buzzed to life. Simon Harlen, Fitz and Spencer were standing there, looking at me with anticipation.

‘Well, here I am,' I said, daring them.

The boys took a moment to get accustomed to the new bright light. This wasn't what they'd been expecting. They stood staring, speechless. Eventually, a smirk spread across Simon Harlen's face.

‘Look here,' he said, ‘a real-life Barbie.'

I walked towards them, defiant. If I got close enough to them, my aura would overwhelm them, force them into submission. Now they would be able to see they had been wrong about me all along. I wasn't just some school kid to pick on, I was the embodiment of their dreams and, through me, they could soar to greater heights.

‘You're a freak,' Fitz said.

‘Tom?' said Spencer.

‘Go on, Spencer. You know what you have to do,' Harlen said.

Spencer didn't move. He was staring at me, his mouth agape. In that split second I knew. Finally I had succeeded! Spencer was amazed by me, humbled by my presence.

‘I knew it,' Simon Harlen said. ‘What a waste of bloody time. C'mon, Fitz, let's go.'

Spencer moved then, a slight twitch to his left eye. He approached me, his movement making the other boys stop in their tracks. Spencer circled right up close to me, squinted his eyes, grimaced. I expected him to reach out and touch me, a deity of sorts, too unreal to behold. But instead, his clenched left fist came out of nowhere, smacking me hard and direct on the mouth. I thought to myself how strange that Spencer had such strength in his left hand. I faltered, felt my weight shift beneath me, went crashing to the ground.