by Sean Kennedy
She grimaced. “Alice Provotna again?”
“Yeah, I’ve got meetings all day. She thinks they’ll be interesting. Our definitions of that word are not one and the same. And she seemed to think this was a business lunch.”
“Thank God you put her off. How did you convince her?”
“I told her you were my mistress,” I teased.
“Hopefully not on camera, just in case any of my family ever get to see it.”
“What, you don’t think we’d make a great couple?”
She raised an eyebrow. “My family would agree.”
“Well, knowing your husband—”
“Hey!” she warned.
I put up my hands in surrender. “Sorry. I had to get one cheap shot in.”
Fran shrugged and picked up the menu even though I knew she had already chosen what she wanted before even arriving at the restaurant. “I’ll give you one.”
“All the rest will be earned, though.”
“Let me just say though, Simon, he is really upset.”
“Boo fucking hoo.”
She glared over the top of the menu. “I said only one cheap shot.”
The waiter took our orders, and I could no longer hide behind my menu-shield. It was time to come out swinging. “So, he’s bloody upset? It can’t be all about him. He attacked us.”
“I know, but he knows he’s screwed up and now he wants to fix it.”
“And I want to lick my wounds for a little while.”
“Get Declan to do it, and maybe it’ll speed up the process.”
I glared at her.
“It’s a joke, Simon. We used to be able to do that.”
I took a sip of my water, something to distract me so that I didn’t blurt out a friendship-ending insult. “Well, I’m not feeling very funny at the moment.”
“You have to forgive him sometime.”
“I know, Fran. We’ve been friends for over sixteen years. This isn’t the end of it. But I need some time at the moment. I just can’t pretend everything’s hunky-dory just because he’s feeling guilty and wants it stopped.”
She nodded. “It’s just he’s my husband. So I have to defend him.”
Dammit, her bright eyes were getting to me as she was sincerely trying not to cry. “I know, Fran. But how you’re feeling at the moment, that’s what I feel about Dec. I have to defend him because of what Roger said.”
She reached over and took my hand. “I get it. How is Dec?”
“He’s fine. Defending Roger as much as you are, surprisingly enough.”
“That’s why I like him.” Fran gave a delicate sniff, trying to compose herself. “He’s very fair-minded.”
“Maybe too much,” I agreed. “I’m still trying to find his faults.”
“He has them,” Fran laughed softly. “We all do.”
“I guess he did try to torture me yesterday with the run on the beach.”
Fran began to choke. I pushed a glass of water towards her, and she hurriedly took a gulp. “You… run… beach?”
“I didn’t last very long.”
“I bet. Still, I wish somebody had had a camera,” she said in awe, as if I’d just told her I’d spotted a Tasmanian tiger loping along with Declan.
I grinned at her and suddenly felt the empty space at the table that was Roger. Even when he wasn’t here, he was still between us.
“No matter what happens, or as long as it takes,” I said, “let’s not let it affect us, Fran.”
She frowned. “You’re scaring me with a sentence like that.”
I sighed. “Maybe I’m being melodramatic. But I just don’t want us to fight.”
Fran twisted her napkin into a little stress ball and smoothed it back out to begin all over again. “We won’t. But sooner or later, if things aren’t resolved, we probably will.”
On that ominous note, our food arrived. For the rest of our lunch hour together the subject of Roger was studiously avoided.
HOWEVER, it was the first thing Declan brought up when he called me later that night.
“No, I haven’t spoken to Roger. But I did speak to Fran.”
“I guess that’s something, at least.”
“She doesn’t want us to fight, but she thinks that the longer things go on like this between Roger and I, the more our friendship will eventually get pulled into it as well.”
“She’s right,” Declan said, refusing to sugarcoat it.
I sighed. “I know. But I’m so pissed off at him at the moment I can’t even look at him. I’m scared I’ll just punch him out.”
Declan laughed. “You?”
“Hey!” I protested. “I can be pretty scrappy when I want to be.”
“I just hope you punch better than you jog.”
“Yeah, well next time you see me, just try me.”
“Now you’re getting kinky on me,” he teased.
“Would you like me to be? I’m surprisingly good at tying knots. It was the only way I got any peace when Tim was about eight.”
“I would be too scared you would have a perverse fit and leave me for hours while you go catch a movie.”
“Sounds like you’re heading into fantasy territory, not me.”
He ignored that. “Seriously, Simon, call him.”
Back to that subject. “In a couple of days. Give me time to cool down.” Desperate to change the subject, I went for the mundane to replace it. “So what did you do today?”
He sounded a bit hesitant. “I, uh, had physio, a team meeting… and then I went to get measured for a suit.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. For the Brownlow.”
“Oh.” Realising I was quickly heading into a territory of jealous in which I didn’t want to stray, I tried to sound light as I asked, “What colour?”
“What colour?”
“Yeah. The suit. What colour?”
“Normal, traditional black.”
“You know, you could try something different.”
He laughed. “Trying something different gets you noticed more. That’s what I try to avoid, remember?”
I remembered the premiere night of the Triple F last year when I had worn an emerald green suit purchased from an op-shop on Sydney Road. There was a reason why Jess was going to the Brownlow instead of me.
Damn. I had let the silence go on for too long.
“Hey, Simon?”
“Yeah?”
“We didn’t really talk about it, before I left. About the Brownlow.”
“What else is there to know? I thought we covered it all.”
“I just wanted to say… the whole damn thing has been crushing me. For the past couple of weeks I’ve been discussing plans with Jess, and I wanted to tell you, but to tell you the truth, I was scared to.”
“Why?”
“Because it isn’t the way it should be.”
His voice pained me, it was low and passionate and heartfelt, and I hated we could only be so open with each other when we were so far apart physically.
“I know, Dec.”
“I should be making these plans with you, trying to talk you out of whatever crazy thing you would be trying to wear—”
“What do you think I would try to wear?” I asked, interested in spite of myself.
“Probably something bright purple or one of those old-fashioned coats that make you look like a vampire from one of those Anne Rice books before she found religion.”
Hmm, purple. Or a Victorian coat? The man knew me, it seemed.
“I wouldn’t do that to you at the Brownlow,” I teased him. “Maybe at the premiere night of the Triple F.”
He laughed. “That’s probably normal dress at that event.”
Sadly, he was correct.
“I knew you would say you would understand,” he continued, “but I know it still hurts.”
“It does, a little bit,” I admitted. “But like you say, I understand.”
“I guess I just thought if I didn’t talk about it t
hen I wouldn’t have to confront it with you.”
“Yeah, that always works.”
“Anyway, I’m sorry about it.”
“Don’t be. Just talk to me from now on,” I told him.
“I promise. And hey, thanks for setting up that segue. How about you do the same with Roger?” he asked, not at all subtly.
“Good night, Dec.”
“Night, babe.”
Damn, he did the babe thing again, beating me to the punch. It would have sounded daft if I had repeated it back to him, so I just had to let it be. For now.
THE next few days were filled with continual pleas from Fran and Declan to give in and speak to Roger. I, of course, let those pleas fall on selectively deaf ears. Until Roger turned up at the office.
It was close to five, Nyssa had already left because of a “dental appointment.” I had locked up and was coming out of the lift when I ran right into the friend I was currently kind-of-feuding with.
“Hi,” Roger said, kind of dopily.
“Yeah, hi,” I replied, just as dopily.
“I, uh, came in to pick up Fran but thought I’d try and catch you as well.”
That irked me. “How nice to be your afterthought.” I started walking through the lobby doors and out onto the street beyond.
“Hey!” Roger protested, not that far behind me. “In case you’ve forgotten, I have been trying to talk to you.”
“And in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve been ignoring you.”
“And how long is that going to go on for?”
“I don’t know. As long as I feel like it.”
We had reached the intersection of Swanston and Collins, where I normally caught my tram. The streets were already packed with people rushing to go home.
“Where are you going?” Roger asked as I stopped to wait for the pedestrian light to cross over the tram tracks.
“Home.”
“I said I would give you a lift.”
“And I’d rather catch the tram.”
To tell you the truth, I was feeling a little perverse pleasure in tormenting him. It was payback for how I felt on Saturday night, dishing it back to him. He looked genuinely hurt that I was refusing after days and many overtures to try and deal with the problem.
“Fucking Declan Tyler,” he fumed. “We never used to fight like this, until he came along.”
“He isn’t the problem,” I said pointedly.
“Oh, and I am?”
“That’s what I was implying.”
The pedestrian crossing started beeping, and we all swarmed over towards the island in the centre of the traffic. There was no sign of my tram yet, but I hoped it wouldn’t be too long.
“You can hate me right now,” Roger said, “but there’s a part of you knows I’m telling the truth, and you don’t want me bringing it up because that means you’ll have to think about it some more. And that will destroy this little Disney fantasy you’ve currently got in your head.”
Fuck him. I knew it wasn’t a fantasy life; I was the one goddamned living it. All I could do was stare at him coldly.
“Got nothing to say?” he asked.
Thankfully, I could see my tram at the next stop, slowly making its way towards ours. “Thanks for your support,” I said. Not the best comeback ever, but there was enough venom in my tone to press the point.
He leaned in to me so he wouldn’t be overheard by the other waiting passengers. “Good luck watching your boyfriend preen with his beard on TV next week.”
Wow, that was remarkably bitchy for a straight man. I didn’t say anything, and Roger stood there staring sadly at me for a moment before walking away.
I can’t say I thought there was an air of finality about this confrontation, but as I got onto the tram and watched him through the window as he made his way to Fran’s building I certainly felt like things would never be the same between us again.
But I’m melodramatic that way.
Later that night when Declan rang I let it go to the answering machine. Despite me telling him that we should talk, I didn’t think I could share how empty I felt right then.
In the morning when he called again, I would fob him off and say that I was tired after work and slept like the dead and be evasive about answering questions about Roger. I was a hypocrite, and all I wanted to do was Rip van Winkle my way out of this whole mess which I had just made worse.
Chapter 16
AND suddenly, September was upon us.
Only the most important month in the AFL calendar. The Brownlow Ceremony takes place the same week as the Grand Final, and the two teams competing in the final usually don’t attend because the coaches want them concentrating on the game at hand rather than falling prey to one of the biggest booze-ups of the year.
This meant that Declan was freed up; as the Devils were near the bottom of the ladder they were effectively out of the semifinals, and he could spend more time in Melbourne preparing for the ceremony and finalising the details of the surgery he would have just before Christmas.
Having him around more was a salve for me, as Roger and I hadn’t spoken since our confrontation on Swanston Street. Declan was disappointed that our estrangement was being taken this far, but he knew he couldn’t budge me to do anything about the issue. Likewise, Fran was experiencing the same thing on her end with Roger, and as she had foreseen in our lunch together just after that disastrous Saturday night, it was beginning to affect our friendship. Although we pretended otherwise, we just happened to become more and more busy at our respective workplaces, and our lunches became less frequent.
“You know, you don’t look so good,” Declan said one day.
“What?” I asked, distracted by a packet of coffee beans that refused to open.
“You look all pinched, as if you’ve just sucked a lemon.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You’ve got to go and see your friends.”
“And you have got to sit there, shut up, and look pretty.”
“Don’t be an arsehole.” He threw the newspaper at me, and it went way off its mark, crashing uselessly to the floor.
“You better not go back on the field with a throw that wide.” I noticed his weapon of choice was the real estate section, with glaring red circles marked around listings of apartments with prices that were more than five times that of my own home.
“Good way to try and change the subject,” Declan grumped.
I finally managed to get some beans into the grinder and hit the button to pulverise them into oblivion. “What was that? Sorry, can’t hear you over this!”
He resorted to giving me the finger.
“Really mature,” I scoffed as he scrambled out of his chair to grab the newspaper again. He gave me a look which more than let me know who he thought the mature one out of the two of us was.
Work was becoming really busy, so I wasn’t exactly lying to Fran when I used it as an excuse to fob her off yet again. It was only a month until the Triple F began; Nyssa and I were scrambling with last-minute deals to grab sponsors, finalise dates and screenings, and deal with a change of one of the venues. Somehow I didn’t mind it as much, because I knew that most nights I was coming home to Declan. I was becoming domesticated. Normally that might have made me baulk at the thought, but scarily enough it just made me give a Cheshire Cat grin.
The Brownlow threatened to deflate my mood, but I tried not to give in to it. Only a few nights before the actual ceremony, Declan came over and told me something I wasn’t expecting to hear.
“Jess thinks the two of you should meet.”
I sank onto the couch. I think I would have been less shocked if he said the Pope was coming over for dinner. “What? Why?”
He shrugged laconically. “Maybe she wants to prove her gay status to you so you won’t feel that she’s trying to steal your man.”
“She didn’t say that!” I spluttered.
“Not in so many words, but it was what she implied. Although she did chuck a fit
when I told her you thought she wanted to harvest my swimmers.”
I whacked him on the shoulder. “You didn’t!”
He couldn’t keep it up for much longer and burst out laughing. He clutched his shoulder, wincing slightly. “You have a mean right hook when you want to.”
“Yeah, ask Tim sometime.” Why did I keep saying these things? It wasn’t deliberate, but it hung in the air like a dying firework between us.
“So you’ll meet her?”
“Why does she want to meet up?”
“Because she’s my friend. And she just wants to clear the air between the two of you.”
“There’s no air to clear.”
“Well, it will make her feel better.”
I opened my mouth to say something, then thought better of it and quickly shut it.
Declan, of course, didn’t miss it. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Bull. What were you about to say?”
“Just….” I sighed. “Did she meet with your other partner when she went to the Brownlow with you before?”
“No,” Declan admitted. “But then, she didn’t have to.”
“Why?”
Declan coloured slightly. “Because he was already going to be at the ceremony.”
I’m pretty sure my mouth dropped open. “He was a footy player?”
“Yes. What, do you think I’m the only queer in all of AFL?”
Statistically, of course he wouldn’t be. But it was also hard to imagine that there could be more, to reconcile against the stereotype we had all been conditioned to believe. And certainly the presence of gay players wasn’t exactly advertised, much less acknowledged.
“Don’t ask me who it is,” Declan said. “He’s extremely closeted. He would hate other people to know.”
“Is that why you broke up?”
Declan nodded and looked away.
“Is he also the one who cheated on you?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
Righteous indignation on his behalf burned through me. “That’s not very closeted of him, is it?”
“Well, it’s easy to fuck around on the sly,” Declan said bitterly. “It’s much harder to try and have a relationship.”
“Why did you stick around?”
