Chapter Text
"..….bit of an emergency Alex, I've got to go, yeah, right, I'll phone you, yeah, OK."
There's a moment after Vince hangs up before he turns, before he looks at Stuart. A moment when he seems to be thinking.
It's a long while since Stuart had to wait for Vince's attention.
He doesn't like it any more now than he did ten years ago.
"Emergency?" and pique makes his voice crueler than he means, "you twat. There's no emergency, and Alex knows it. Just for once fucking put the phone down without lying about it."
And his head disappears into the towel again, so he doesn’t see the hurt.
But then, he never does.
Two days later, it’s Vince who comes out of the shower to find Stuart on the phone.
Vince who stands helplessly waiting as goodbyes are said.
Vince who would dearly like to hide in a towel, avoid this confrontation.
"We should be getting a move on, you'll not want to be too late - want time to - dance - whatever - before – well, before you - anyway - you want to shower? - did you want food sent up? - they overcharge - but I will if you are - I don't know - what d'you reckon? Might be sensible. Not drink on an empty stomach, all that?"
He could, Stuart knows from experience, go on for hours.
Best, therefore, just to interrupt.
"That was Alexander. Wanting to know if my meetings were really so important. If I couldn't reschedule. If I couldn't get you on a flight. If - fuck - if you'd said anything about arrangements. What you want. What - Jesus, Vince - what Hazel would have wanted."
Waits.
Sees the shutters come down.
Vince turns away, shrugs.
It's the moment when most people would perhaps reach out to their best friend, maybe touch, offer comfort.
Of course, Stuart has never been like most people.
"You twat. How do you think I felt? Hazel's dead, and you knew but you didn’t fucking tell me? Why? Why do I have to find out from Alex? And what the hell did he mean? Always knew I was a controlling bastard but this takes the biscuit?”
Mulishly stubborn now,
"Didn't see it was your problem. You - we - haven't been back in ten years. Why now?"
Stuart flounders.
"Because - shit - because - your mother's funeral? Why are we even having this conversation? You and Hazel were always so close - how are we not on a flight already, not back there? Jesus Christ Vince, what is wrong with you?"
Vince, from long habit, reaches for the comfort of a cigarette. Remembers. He gave up four years ago when it just got too difficult, too few places to smoke.
Probably just as well, given the heart defect. Not that he has it, not necessarily.
All the same.
All those years, worrying about cancer, turns out it wasn't the most likely killer. Wasn't himself he needed to worry about either.
And for a moment, the grief rises, the wave towers above him, and the loss, the pain would overwhelm him, if he let it.
Instead he reaches for anger.
"Go back? We - I - didn't go back for her wedding, why would I go now? Not been back once in ten years, not for Hazel, not for Alfie, not for anything or anyone. Why would we go now? If I wasn't there the one day of her life she really wanted me, what the fuck is the point in going when it's too late?"
"But what about family - neighbours - what will people think?" And even as he speaks, Stuart winces, hearing his own mother, hearing the words he grew up loathing, the attitude he thought he had freed himself from long ago.
Vince, as he still can on occasion, surprises him.
He laughs.
"I don't care. I don't know mum's neighbours, friends even. So many years, remember, Irene’s dead, people move on – I’ll have never even met half of them. And what family? There was only ever her and me. I don't suppose Dudley'll be there - nothing to say to him anyway - and her policeman - doubt he'd be too pleased if I turn up. No, best not. Let them say what they like. One thing Hazel taught me - it isn't doing what looks right that matters, it’s doing what is right."
And – bang – frees Stuart from all the panic squirreling in his head. Like he always does.
Vince doesn't say it, but - to turn up now, after all this time, and let everyone see how things are - wouldn't that be the worst betrayal of all? 'My mad dash to finally get my son his man!' 'My son and his boyfriend are off travelling the world' 'My son's rich boyfriend paid for this' - expose them all for the - not lies, not really lies, he won’t call them lies, but – simplifications - that they were?
Wouldn't that be the worst hurt?
Wouldn't that really give them something to pity her for?
A son who isn’t the romantic end to a story, isn't wild and free and happy.
A son who's just - trailing after, just waiting, just wasting his life.
Just the way he has been since he was fourteen.
Much later, lying alone in the hotel room, dreading sleep because tonight is the kind of night when the Stuart-dream happens, and it hurts, every time it hurts to wake to reality, Vince reminds himself of his resolve.
He won't make a liar of his mum.
And if that means lying for the rest of his life, if it means not going home, not seeing his friends again - well.
Perhaps that isn't such a loss.
After all, the pity, pity that even now – even after running away, leaving everything behind, after all the big words and fancy speeches, after ten more years; nothing’s changed, still Stuart’s little acolyte, still waiting for the shag that will never happen – the pity for him on their faces would scald worse than anything, wouldn't it?
Worse than anything but the jealousy that burnt tonight and every such night, the ache and longing in him every time Stuart leaves with a shag, every time that predatory smile is turned on another, every time the heated touches he longs for are shared with some man - any man it seems - anyone, everyone, but never him.
Clenching fists, biting lip, he recites in his mind once again – it’s only sex. It doesn't mean anything. He loves you, in his way, he loves you more than anyone. You know him better than any of them ever will. You have him day after day at your side. Year after year.
He knows you love him, he trusts you with everything he is.
He'd do anything - almost anything - anything but give up shagging - anything but say any of it outright - for you.
Isn't that enough?
It should be. It has to be.
After all, he offered a shag - a threesome – or just the two of you - romantic as anyone could dream of - all those years ago. And you turned him down.
Scared of what it would mean, what it would change - scared nothing would change, scared it wouldn't mean anything to him - you turned him down.
You chose this.
You said it was enough, said you’d wait.
Promised, even if not in so many words. I’ll still be there, chasing after you. Your old age. Assuming I’d want you. Long time to wait.
Course, it didn’t seem that long then. Not compared to how long you’d waited already.
Twat.
But you said it, you meant it.
You chose this.
So stop with the self-pity, Vince.
You have what no-one else ever will.
Be content.
The recitation is calming, a litany to live by.
Good enough for Vince.
Almost.
As the cab-fare rises steadily, Stuart leans back, closes his eyes.
Why doesn't anyone stop him?
Someone should stop him.
Admits in his own mind that what he means is - Vince should stop him.
Thirty-nine now, forty approaching.
Nephews who are adults, or near enough.
A son you don’t know, a son who will start secondary school soon. And isn’t that a time a boy needs a father?
Only you never signed up for that. Lisa makes a better father than you, any day of the week.
Besides, Vince did alright without.
Parents aging, so Marie says – not that you listen, not that you care, cunts, and Marie can just fuck off. But still.
And now - Hazel dead.
If that doesn't make them old, both of them, what will?
He isn't stupid - he knows he's on borrowed time, knows he doesn't look - shit, that he doesn't look in the mirror as he does in his mind. Knows he never had the type of looks that age well.
And he certainly didn't take care of himself.
Tonight - and not for the first time - he found himself leaving the bar with a shag he wouldn't even have glanced at once.
Tonight, not for the first time, the most attractive man in the bar wasn't him, and wasn’t looking at him.
He was looking at Vince.
Or, depending on your taste, Vince was the best.
Vince, twat that he is, didn't notice. Never notices.
Has no idea how much he's grown into his looks, how fucking hot he is now. And somehow Stuart doesn't have the heart to tell him.
Bastard, he thinks now. You didn’t want him, not tonight, not any night, but you can't bring yourself to do the right thing.
Admits in his own mind - you did want him. You do.
But how to say?
After all the years, how?
Can't.
Always relied on Vince to know.
Relied on him seeing it was time.
Only he hasn't, doesn't, and Stuart - Stuart doesn't have the courage to say, to ask.
So this night ended the same as so many others - Stuart shagging some nameless bloke, Vince - Vince doing whatever he does when he's alone.
Wanking.
Watching sci-fi.
Crying.
Stuart bangs his head gently against the back of the seat. Not that.
No.
He hasn't made Vince cry for years.
Has he?
Lets himself into the hotel room, and for once he is almost discreet, almost quiet, almost considerate.
Almost.
But – he’s Stuart Alan Jones.
Can’t do anything without a spectacle, a drama.
So,
“You not asleep? Here I am, trying to be nice, not wake you, and look at you, nearly three in the bloody morning, sat there in front of some crap – what are you watching?”
Vince looks up, peers at the screen,
“Fuck knows,” he says, and shrugs, “it was Battlestar Galactica last time I noticed. Don’t think this is – unless they’ve fallen through a really strange wormhole – no, I don’t think so – don’t know. Golf? Or something? This might be the adverts. It’s hard to tell with Italian television. And there’s a thing – so many channels – but all of it’s the same really – “
He’d go on, but Stuart doesn’t have the patience.
“Whatever,” he says, and then, glancing at Vince as he strips, always glancing, always waiting for the day those eyes meet his, the day the sad bastard actually realises, sees him waiting, “you alright? You – shit, what happened? You been – crying?”
It’s not my fault, he wants to add, you should have stopped me. You really should have stopped me.
Vince shrugs, and his eyes slide away,
“Might’ve, yeah. Bit.”
Silence.
Stuart goes through to the bathroom, not closing the door, pretending unconcern. Pisses, brushes vaguely at his teeth, tries not to meet his own eyes in the mirror.
Comes back through, and looks at Vince.
“When is it? Day after tomorrow? – no, tomorrow now – look, we can get a flight. No problem. I’ll phone Thrive, partner’s mother died – they love all that – compassionate leave. Fuck, they only pay me consultancy rates, doesn’t matter to them.”
Silence.
“You want – want to go on your own? Fine. Be like that. I’ll book you first class, you like that. Taxis. Hotel, where d’you want to stay? Whatever you want, Vince. You know that.”
Silence.
“Fucks sake. What do you want me to say? I’m sorry, alright. She’s dead, and you’re sad, and what the fuck do you want?”
Vince is still staring at the television, now seemingly engrossed in a property makeover show of which he understands not one word, seemingly enchanted by the busty blonde presenter, though Stuart has his doubts.
Gets into bed. Lies, looking at the ceiling, waiting, then,
“Oi, twat, I’m talking to you. Fucking answer.”
Vince shrugs.
“I said, I don’t want to go. No reason to go.”
Stuart picks up the remote, switches the tv off, turns out the lights.
“Twat.”
Turns onto his side, like he always does, back towards Vince, waits.
Feels the bed shift as Vince lies down, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.
Waits.
“I don’t know what I want. I want – it doesn’t matter what I want. I loved her, she was my mum. And she loved me. You don’t know how I feel – and you can’t make it better by spending money. So don’t ask, just – just let me be.”
Silence, Stuart waiting in case there’s more. An old trick, but it often works.
Not this time.
The minutes drag.
Silence.
Stuart wonders if that really is it, but waits.
“Drove me mental sometimes. I mean – I’d be out, right, you’d be – wherever – there’d be some bloke – nice bloke, nice enough, and I’d – just sometimes like – make eye contact, go over, and then – I’d see her. Out the corner of my eye. Just looking. Just being friendly, keeping an eye out. And he’d see, and grin, and then be like – oh, you’re the one with the mum. And I’d know – I’d just know – that was it. No chance.”
No, Stuart can see how that might have been a problem. Fuck, the thought of Hazel on the warpath – be a braver man than him to risk it.
“Didn’t know that happened.”
Shrug, the duvet moving slightly,
“Well, you wouldn’t. How would you? You’d be off with some shag – I wasn’t about to tell you,” he sighs, “that wasn’t the worst neither. You know what the worst was? Sometimes – not often – well, not really often – there’d be some bloke, seemed nice – ok at least – he’d come over, buy me a drink even, chat, and then – he’d be all – you’re the one with the mum, aren’t you? Would she – could I talk to her? They’d want her to sort out something – talk to their mothers – help with landlords, could be anything. Nothing really, sometimes, they just – wanted something – wanted her.”
But not you, Stuart thinks, not you, any more than that boyfriend wanted you. The one that chased after me, shagged you, went out with you for months to get to me. Fuck knows what his name was now. Any more than my stalkers wanted you when they woke you in the night, when they came round to yours to complain, to beg, to lock themselves in your bathroom leaving you to piss in the sink.
Fuck.
“Not an easy woman to live up to,” he says.
“No. Well. Not much to boast about really, was I? Work in a supermarket, go down the pub, go home and watch cheap science fiction.”
Silence a moment, Stuart wanting to say something, not knowing what.
“Not much of a Golden Boy,” Vince adds, and the response is automatic.
“Fuck off.”
And then,
“She boasted alright. Anything you did – right from when I knew you – things from before that – used to make my mother sick. Don’t know what she thinks she’s got to be so proud of, mu – Margaret used to say, he’s a bit quiet. You need to watch out for the quiet ones.”
Silence.
“Da – Clive always used to wink at me when she said that. Like you’d got all these girls on the go.”
Silence.
“She’s been proud since I left,” Vince adds, “like running away was the best thing I ever did. Writes – wrote – to say.”
And I let her believe it. Let her believe it was worthwhile.
Lied over and over to let her believe you love me – the way I love you.
That we – finally – are together.
Shag.
Because that’s what I am. A liar.
And a coward.
“There you are then,” Stuart says, “happy ending all round. Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”
“Yes. Night then. Lots o’ love.”
“Christ, I haven’t seen you this pissed for years. Ever. Not since – fuck, I don’t know. Come on, Vince, Vinnie, Vincie-boy, come on, home now. Bedtime. Good boys go to bed.”
Vince laughs.
“No bed for you then,” he says, “you’ve never been a good boy.”
“So not funny, twat,” but Stuart can’t help but almost smile, even as he tries to keep the sneer in place, because – he honestly can’t remember the last time he saw Vince so out of control.
Thinks about that as they wait for a taxi, as he finds himself helping Vince in, listening to the stream of consciousness chatter – even worse than bloody usual – and that’s interesting, Vince does filter it down usually. He’d assumed not, that the random facts, inane gibberish, the background radio to his life, the sound he can’t bear to be without – assumed that it was all that went through his mate’s head.
Apparently not.
“Like you saying Vinnie. You never say that. Mum used to – used to shout it out – god that was embarrassing – but – no good telling her. Never was. D’you remember that Nathan? ‘Course you do. His mum – she was going to turn out like Hazel. Almost made me feel sorry for the little bastard. Not quite. He’d cope, laugh it off. Little bastard.”
And somehow he can’t help himself, Stuart has to say it,
“Not so little,”
And off Vince goes again,
“Well, I wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t want to. He’ll be twenty-five now. D’you remember being twenty-five? I remember you. You thought you were getting old then, best days were past. All that. Then we had all the fucking issue with thirty. Six months of crusading it took you to come to terms with it. Six bloody months of bang, bang, bang – so fucking lucky, you are so fucking lucky you got away with it all. Twenty-five though. Jesus. You were fucking hot then. Didn’t half want to shag you. You had that jacket. Remember that jacket? And the split-level flat? And the sports-car? I liked that car. Was a good car. Nicer than the gay jeep really, I thought. Twenty-five. Imagine Nathan twenty-five.”
“Shut up,” because the repetition is too much, and the memories hurt.
“Oh, shut up yourself, you just don’t like that you’re nearly forty. Nearly forty. What d’you think’s going to happen? Not going to slow you down is it? Just a number, a date, you don’t have to tell anyone.”
“I won’t need to if you’re going to go round saying it. This the new Vince? Pissed? Christ, thank fuck, here we are. Out we come now, nice and steady, yes, well, stupid twat, you will hurt your head if you do that. Good thing you’re daft already, we won’t notice the difference,” turns to the driver, hands over some notes, “there you go, mate. Now, oh for – Vince – Vinnie – not wandering off over there, come on, back indoors, into the hotel, nice hotel, yes, come on. Shit. Twat.”
He isn’t as nice as Vince, Stuart reflects. Everyone knows – well, everyone who spends any time with them knows – Vince is the nice one, Stuart the sexy one.
This being so, his character irredeemably tarnished, he may as well take advantage of being sober, of Vince not being sober, to ask questions that would normally be stonewalled, blanked out – or cause an epic, days-long sulk.
“When was the last time you got drunk?” in the lift, start careful, approach the big question like a hunter, stealthy.
Shrug.
“Bad things happen when I get drunk,” and Stuart frowns.
“Like what?”
Shrug.
“’Cos last time I saw you really drunk,” as they walk – meander – from lift to room, “no, don’t fucking wander off while I open the door – the worst that happened was you told Hazel you were queer – in we go – we were queer – and I don’t remember that being a bad thing. Not as such. No, don’t fucking lie down in your clothes, I know you, you’ll be lurching about complaining later.”
Shrug. Eyes slide away, even as Vince obediently sits up, blinks owlishly at boots, obviously flummoxed by the knots in the laces, and then,
“You were so sick. Oh my god, yes, you were, d’you know, I’d forgotten that? You saying ‘pleased to meet you Miss Tyler’, like she was a teacher, then like you’d been practicing, ‘Stuart Alan Jones, bent as a three bob note’ – and then throwing up in the kitchen sink, stumbling upstairs. Christ you were sick. Stuart Lightweight Jones. She phoned your mum, Hazel did. Told her you were staying over, made up some crap about a school project needing finishing. You slept in my bed – had to get up every hour, check on you, check you hadn’t thrown up and choked yourself.”
Yes. You did, didn’t you?
Fourteen, pissed out of your skull, just outed yourself, and you still woke every hour to check on me. Probably cleaned the damn kitchen as well, if I know Hazel.
Best mate anyone could have.
But Stuart doesn’t say that. Instead, unlaces the impossible boots, moves them away from the trip-zone by the bed, and without asking gently unrolls socks, head bent down,
“Remember you standing there, all ‘sorry mum, I had a drink mum, this is Stuart mum, we finished your vodka mum, I’m queer mum. Sorry mum.’ Remember Hazel being furious about the vodka, saying we could have stuck to the cheap stuff. Remember being really, really sick, leaving you to be shouted at for the vodka. Don’t remember what Hazel said about us. First I remember is the next day, her lecturing us about drink. And being safe. Not taking alcohol from strange men. Use a condom. Don’t go into dodgy places until you’re big enough to look after yourself.”
Shrug. Fumbling with shirt buttons,
“She didn’t say much. Not sure it was a surprise.”
Not until after you’d gone home next day.
Waited until we were washing up from the huge breakfast she’d cooked us – ‘cos when you’re fifteen and you’ve thrown up all the alcohol and food the night before you wake starving – and then, when I couldn’t run away, she started.
“I thought that was how it was,” and I didn’t know what to say, “that you had – what do they call it – a crush on him. The way you talk about him. Stuart this, Stuart that.”
I didn’t say anything.
Not that lack of response ever stopped Hazel.
“Look at you, flushing, red as a beetroot. Did you really think I didn’t know? Come to that, do you really think he doesn’t know?”
I just kept on, scrubbing at the plates, congealed yolk under my fingers. Thinking – shut up, please mum, shut up. I don’t want to talk about it.
Didn’t say it. No point.
“He knows. And he loves it. Clever little bastard, he’s got you right where he wants you. Vinnie, you’re not even fifteen yet. Don’t – don’t go giving him everything. Please. Because it’ll mean too much to you – and not enough to him.”
As if I didn’t know that.
The way you talked about men, boys you’d had – hand jobs, blow jobs, that was all then – men you wanted.
The way you never, ever looked at me like I looked at you.
The way you could touch me without realizing, leaving me burning, and you – you didn’t care. It meant nothing. You could strip in front of me without thinking, laugh and push, wrestle and hug.
I knew how it was. So why did it hurt so much that she could see it?
“It’s only a crush. You’ll grow out of it,” and then she must have seen me shake my head, “no, I don’t mean – I’m not telling you it’s a stage, you’ll meet a nice girl and forget – if you’re gay, you’re gay, and that’s fine – fine with me, and we’ll talk about the law and that later – but Stuart – it’s just because he’s there, and the only person you know, and your friend. And he’s got all the awkward teenage growing and spots and fidgets over with early, I can see that. Please, love, if – when – he tries it on – don’t see anything that isn’t there.”
Wanting to say, but it might be there one day, it might. He might change.
I’m not that bad, surely?
Even if I am spotty and fidgety and voice all over the place and – and all the rest of it.
Isn’t it worth the chance? Worth hoping?
I love him, mum. I can’t help it, can’t change it. I love him.
Knowing she was right.
Swallowing, nodding, the frying pan blurring from the tears in my eyes that I was damned if I’d let fall where she could see.
“It’s called a crush because that’s what it does to you – crushes you. Don’t – how you feel at fourteen, fifteen – it isn’t the way you’ll feel forever. You’ll meet someone else, someone really nice, someone who loves you.”
Like you have, mum? Only I’d never say that, never hurt her like that.
Besides, my fault – if I hadn’t come along, she’d be married with a whole load of kids by now. Nice house, no more watching the pennies, cutting out coupons. Good husband, maybe a daughter, maybe a whole load of boys. She’s a good mum, she ought to have more kids, ought to have more than this. Normal kids. Not stuck in this house, struggling every month, with just me to show for it. I know she’s lonely, I’ve heard her cry. She doesn’t say it, but – I’ve heard them talk in school – teenage pregnancy, disaster. They all say – get rid of it. And of course I’m glad she didn’t, but – I feel guilty.
So when she says – you’ll meet someone, I don’t believe her. Don’t believe everyone meets someone. ‘Cos if she hasn’t, and she’s – well, people don’t say it about their mums, but – she is, she’s great – then what are the chances of anyone wanting me?
“Honestly, love, I’m not trying to upset you, and I’m sure he’s a nice enough lad. Just – take care of yourself.”
Nodding again, putting the pan on the draining rack. Head down, rinsing the sink, wiping my hands dry, going up to my room. Shutting the door.
Lying on the bed, head on the pillow, staring at the ceiling, not crying, I’m not crying, boys don’t cry.
Knowing she was right.
But oh god, I wish, I wish, I hadn’t listened.
I wish I’d had the guts to – to let you – not to run away that time, but just lock the door and – and carry on. Give you everything, as she put it.
It wouldn’t have meant anything to you.
I know that.
I’d have been devastated when you moved on.
But sometimes I still wish I had.
Because she was wrong about one thing. How I felt at fourteen, fifteen – it hasn’t changed.
Except now, for a long time, I don’t really have that hope, that dream. I know you won’t ever turn and look at me different, won’t ever see me the way I see you, won’t ever touch me like that. I had chances, then because you were fourteen and desperate, and later, because you thought I’d leave you without – and every time I turned you down. Because I knew you never really wanted me to say yes.
You won’t ask again.
But you do love me, in your way.
And that’s enough.
The memory plays out in so little time, Stuart doesn’t even register the pause before,
“Probably just relieved I wasn’t going to be getting some bird up the duff, landing her with another little bastard to look after.”
Frowns, even as he sorts out the difficult buttons, and because that isn’t the Hazel he remembers,
“Ah, go on, she’d have been great. Spoiled Alfie rotten. Shit. Poor little sod. He’ll miss her,” and for an instant Stuart almost adds – we have to go back, Vince, I need to be there for Alfie.
But Stuart Alan Jones doesn’t say things like that. Instead, he pulls Vince to his feet, walks him to the bathroom, carefully doesn’t watch him piss – Vince gets awfully shy sometimes – puts toothpaste on his brush for him, because the agony of watching the twat miss is just not worth the brief amusement. And a Vince who hasn’t cleaned his teeth will twitter on for days about the worry of tooth decay, and age catching up with them, and fuck that.
Besides, a fortnight on holiday together two or three times a year, presents in the post, what kind of father is that? What use is that turning up?
Alfie’ll be alright. He’s got his mums.
Dismisses it.
“So, what else happens when you get drunk? Why don’t you?”
Subtle, Stuart.
Shrug,
“Got to get you home, usually. Be no good both of us off our heads.”
Maybe. Hard to spot the lies when they’re filtered through a toothbrush.
“And when you’re out without me? With some boyfriend? You drink then?”
Did you trust them to get you home?
Did you trust them more than me? Let them see that side of you as well as the undone, panting, sex-flushed Vince that I’ve never seen? Not since that one glimpse, both of us so young, you so afraid, so desperate – your first time – and fuck, but I wish – I wish bloody Hazel hadn’t come home when she did. You’d have let me have you, I’d have been your first.
Maybe it would have screwed us up. But maybe – sometimes I wonder – if I had, if you had – if you’d been there, under me, looking up at me – we’d have done it raw, because it would have been ok to. And maybe – maybe then – a lot of things would be different.
As it is – other men had all your firsts. Selfish of me to care, but I do.
Did you trust all those boyfriends more than me?
“No. Best not.”
Don’t ask me why not, Stuart.
Best not, because I don’t know if I could pretend when I’m pissed. Don’t know if I might – just might – make the mistake of saying your name when we shagged. And I don’t want to be such a fucking cliché.
“So when – you used to drink to get drunk. You stopped – stopped when I was away, at college – did something – Christ, did something happen then?”
Back towards the bed. How have I never thought about this?
What kind of best mate am I that I never asked?
Shrug.
“No.”
Not like you mean. Nothing changed, nothing dangerous or dramatic. I didn’t get jumped, or forget to be safe, or any of the nightmare scenarios we all pretend not to think about.
“Just realized – I couldn’t really afford to drink too much. Money. Having to get up in the morning, work. Stuff like that.”
Realized that I was going to spend my whole life waiting, so I’d better get used to it. Make the best of it.
Not fall into the trap of thinking a few drinks every night was going to help.
Vince closes his eyes, even though the lurching of the room is worse that way.
Not watching you strip, not now, not ever. Too tempting, too painful.
Stuart settles beside him, pulls the duvet straight, almost tucks it round, like he used to with Alfie.
But doesn’t kiss Vince good night. Tempting though.
Silence.
“There we go, bed. Light out. Sleep tight, Vince.”
“’Night Stuart. Lots o’ love.”
You always say that.
I used to have answerphone tapes with you saying that. It’d be voicemail now. Another reason to be glad I have the real thing instead.
Don’t remember anyone else ever saying that, not like that, like it was automatic, like I could take it for granted, trust it.
“Vince?”
I know you’re not asleep.
Ten years we’ve lived together, not that we call it that, moving from place to place, hotel to serviced apartment to hotel. Longer than the average marriage.
And that’s not counting the sixteen years before that. I know you.
I know how your breathing changes.
“Vince?”
Silence.
“Vince?”
“What?”
I don’t know how to say it, don’t know how to reach out and make you see I mean it.
I do love you, but you know that, you must do. It’s more than that.
I – want you.
At least, I think I do.
Maybe.
We could try.
How – how bad could it be?
Fucking – you and me – we could still have other shags like, that would be ok, sort of – best of both?
Would you do that?
If I said – I want you – want us – would that be enough? Or would you still be all cold and disapproving and shut me out?
Tries to form the words.
Vince – Vince – I want – to give it a go. You and me. Not exclusive, like – but – you and me.
Knows that won’t go well. Even this drunk, perhaps especially this drunk, Vince will tell him to fuck off.
And mean it.
How to say it, how to persuade?
Then Stuart thinks of a way, of a promise made long ago.
“I’m old, Vince.”
Silence.
“Vince?”
He laughs.
“Go to sleep, Stuart. Long day tomorrow, things to do. Stop being a twat. Months till your birthday. Save the crisis till then.”